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Negative by Dr. C. L. Mitchell. From a carbon photograph, copyright, 1898, by A. W. Elson & Co., Boston. 

THE POETS’ CORNER, WESTMINSTER ABBEY, LONDON 

Showing the Memorial of Longfellow. 

































v 1 


THE BRIDGE OF SIGHS, VENICE 

Through this arch condemned prisoners were led to confinement or execution. 
The beautiful bridge with its sombre history has been celebrated 
in poetry by Byron and others. 













The Golden Treasury 

OF 

Poetry and Song 


A COMPLETE FIRESIDE CYCLOPEDIA OF THE 
BEST VERSE IN THE ENGLISH LANGUAGE. 
OVER THIRTEEN HUNDRED COMPLETE POEMS 
BY NEARLY TWO HUNDRED NOTED AUTHORS 

COMPRISING 

The Best Poems of tlie Most Famous Writers for Four Centuries, 
English and American. Including Poems of Humor, Pathos, 
Patriotism, Nature, Religion and Sentiment, Arranged 
Under Appropriate Division, with Author and 
Subject Index and Explanatory Notes 

COMPILED AND EDITED 

By HENRY T. COATES 

JJrflfuaHxi JUuatratrli 

WITH SPECIAL DUOGRAPH ENGRAVINGS AND PORTRAITS 













5 



t,: JKARY of OONQRESS 
fwu Oopios riecavou 

OCT. 20 iyOi> 

Sopyriam. tntrjf 

0 1 

h jss a AJto w« 

if 

CQ'P'i B. 



COPYRIGHT, 1905, BY W. E. SCULL 


i 


Copyright, 1901, 1895, 1888, 1881, 1879, by Henry T. Coat** 
1878, by Porter & Coates 








EDITOR’S PREFACE 


I T has been the Editor’s aim in this volume to present a comprehensive col¬ 
lection—a veritable Treasury , in fact—of the best poetry in the English 
language ; one that will be a welcome companion in every home and at 
every fireside, and while representing all that is best and brightest in our poetic 
literature, should contain nothing that would undermine anyone’s faith or destroy 
a single virtuous influence. On the contrary, there is no reading which more pow¬ 
erfully builds up the character and the moral fibre, or which cultivates in a greater 
degree those faculties of imagination and feeling, which lift one man above 
another, than a close acquaintance with good poetry. 

There have been many collections of verse made by individuals, and in 
seeking to combine in one great work all of the best that has been produced in 
more than six hundred years during which time the English language has flour¬ 
ished, the Editor has not taken it upon himself to make his personal preference 
superior to the popular judgment. He has consulted the works of the best 
critics and reviewers, and has not hesitated to include in his collection such 
pieces as have received their united approval or such as have touched the popular 
heart. Each poem is given complete, and great care has been taken to follow 
the most authoritative editions of the respective authors. He has for many years 
of his life kept the completion of this labor of love in view, and has some confi¬ 
dence in feeling that every poem of note in the English language will be found 
in these pages except those few which alone fill one or more volumes. 

There is great convenience in the plan which has been adopted of classifying 
each poem according to its subject matter, so that every taste may be gratified, 
and the reader may browse for hours among all the poems which best suit his 
humor. There are “Psalms and Hymns and Spiritual Songs” for Sunday 
reading, Poems of Happy and Sad Home Life for the cold winter evenings when 
the logs are blazing cozily on the hearth, Poems of Nature for the budding spring¬ 
time, Poems for the Lover, Historical Poems, Old Legends, Ballads and Songs 
for everyone. There are poems of Memory and Reminiscence for the grand* 
father, verses which will deeply touch the father of his family and the true 
American mother, pages which the boys and girls will pore over under the lamp 
in the evening, and verses also for the baby—some that he has already heard from 
his mother’s lips, and some that neither she nor he have heard. 

From the days when 

“Adam delved and Eve span” 

to the present, human nature has ever been the same. Kingdoms have risen 
and been forgotten, languages have formed and fallen into disuse, but love, 
patriotism, sorrow and death are the same in all ages and climes. The language 
may be different and the allusions seem strange to our ears, but the same old, 

(i) 


a 


11 


EDITOR’S PREFACE. 


old story was told by gallant knight to high-bred dame in the good old days of 
Queen Bess as is now whispered into the ear of country beauty or ball-room 
belle. 

“ Each heart recall’d a different name, but all sang ‘Annie Laurie.’" 

The same impulses inspired Horatius as he faced Lars Porsena’s army on the 
banks of the Tiber centuries ago, and the brave boys who flocked to their 
country’s standard during our late wars; while the bereaved parent even now 
mourns for his erring child in the same heart-language as did the sweet Singer of 
Israel over his lost Absalom. Though long cycles have intervened between 
Shakespeare and Tennyson, Sir Walter Raleigh and Longfellow, Herrick and 
Burns, Herbert and Whittier, rare Ben Johnson and Mrs. Browning, one ani¬ 
mating purpose breathes alike through the voices of the poets of the past and 
present. 

As many of the poems are founded upon some historical fact or interesting 
incident or legend, a knowledge of which greatly aids the reader in his apprecia¬ 
tion of them, copious explanatory and corroborative notes have been placed at 
the end of the volume. The indexes and aids to reference are as complete and 
convenient as possible. In addition to a full list of all the poems alphabetically 
arranged, by which any may be instantly found, each poet’s name in the list of 
authors is followed by a list of the poems he has contributed to the “Golden 
Treasury,” and the dates which show the period of his life. Finally, any poem 
whose name and author is forgotten can be found by referring to the Index of 
First Lines which is appended to the book. 

The Editor would express his thanks to the various authors and publishers 
who have so kindly permitted him to use the copyright poems contained in this 
collection, merely to enumerate whom would make too long a list for the space 
at his disposal. 

August , ipoj. 




CONTENTS 


PAGE 

INDEX OF AUTHORS . *. v 

INDEX OF THE NAMES OF THE POEMS.xxi 

POEMS OF HOME AND THE FIRESIDE. 1 

POEMS OF INFANCY AND CHILDHOOD .29 

POEMS OF MEMORY AND RETROSPECTION .73 

POEMS OF LOVE .97 

PERSONAL POEMS .223 

HISTORICAL POEMS .283 

POEMS OF PATRIOTISM .353 

LEGENDARY AND BALLAD POETRY.369 

POEMS OF NATURE .431 

POEMS OF THE SEA .507 

POEMS OF PLACES . 521 

“PSALMS AND HYMNS AND SPIRITUAL SONGS”.543 

MORAL AND DIDACTIC POETRY .633 

POEMS OF SENTIMENT.721 

HUMOROUS AND FANTASTIC POETRY .763 

NOTES, EXPLANATORY AND CORROBORATIVE .781 

INDEX OF FIRST LINES .813 


















































































































































INDEX OF AUTHORS 


Page 


ADAM, JEAN (1710-1765). 

The Mariner’s Wife. 10 

ADAMS, SARAH (FLOWER) (1805-1848). 

“Father, Thy will be done”. 564 

“Nearer, my God, to Thee”. 584 

ADDISON, JOSEPH (1672-1719). 

An Ode—"The spacious firmament on high”. 565 

"How are thy servants blest, O Lord!”. 578 

Paraphrase of Psalm XXIII. 581 

“When all Thy mercies, 0 my God!”. 567 

AKENSIDE, MARK (1721-1770). 

Inscription for a Statue of Chaucer. 227 

AKERMAN, LUCY EVELINA (1816-1874). 

Nothing but Leaves. 598 

ALDRICH, JAMES (1810-1856). 

A Death-Bed. 645 

ALDRICH, THOMAS BAILEY (1836-). 

Baby Bell. 30 

ALEXANDER, CECIL FRANCES (1823—). 

The Burial of Moses. 600 

There is a green hill. 632 

ALFORD, HENRY (1810-1871). 

Baptismal Hymn. 583 

Thanksgiving Hymn. 578 

ALISON, RICHARD (1006?-). 

“There is a garden in her face”. 185 

ALLEN, ELIZABETH AKERS (1832-). 

Endurance. 637 

Rock me to Sleep. 74 

ALLINGHAM, WILLIAM (1828-1889). 

A Wife. 12 

Lovely Mary Donnelly. 142 

Robin Redbreast. 481 

The Touchstone. 685 

ALLSTON, WASHINGTON (1779-1843). 

Boyhood. 53 

ARNOLD, SIR EDWIN (1832-1904). 

After Death in Arabia. 701 

Almond-Blossom. 466 

ARNOLD, MATTHEW (1822-1888). 

Philomela. 476 

AUSTIN, JOHN (1613-1669). 

“Blest be Thy love, dear Lord”. 568 

AYTON, SIR ROBERT (1570-1638). 

To his Forsaken Mistress. 148 

Woman’s Inconstancy. 141 

AYTON, WILLIAM EDMONDSTOUNE (1818- 
1865). 

Edinburgh after Flodden. 303 


Pagb 


The Burial-March of Dundee. 318 

The Execution of Montrose. 314 

BACON, FRANCIS, BARON VERULAM (1561- 
1626). 

Life. 633 

BAILIE, JOANNA (1762-1851). 

Morning Song. 503 

Song—“Oh welcome, bat and owlet gray”... 485 
The Kitten. 488 

BAKEWELL, JOHN (1721-1819). 

“Hail! Thou one-despisfed Jesus!”. 558 

BALLANTYNE, JAMES (1808-1877). 

Castles in the Air. 37 

BAMPFYLDE, JOHN CODRINGTON (1754- 
1796). 

Sonnet—To the Redbreast. 481 

BARBAULD, ANNA LH2TITIA (1743-1825). 

Christ Risen. 556 

Life. 633 

Praise to God. 568 

The Death of the Virtuous. 638 

BARNARD, LADY ANNE (LINDSAY) (1750- 
1825). 

Auld Robin Gray. 137 

BARNFIELD, RICHARD (1574-1627). 

The Nightingale. 484 

BARRY, MICHAEL JOSEPH (1815-). 

The Place to Die. 700 

BARTON, BERNARD (1784-1849). 

Not ours the Vows. 101 

“There be Those . 637 

BAXTER, RICHARD (1615-1691). 

Resignation. 586 

BAYLY, THOMAS HAYNES (1797-1839). 

The Mistletoe Bough. 412 

The Pilot. 607 

To My Wife. 9 

BEATTIE, JAMES (1735-1803). 

The Hermit. 668 

BEATTIE, WILLIAM (1793-1875). 

Evening Hymn of the Alpine Shepherds. 572 

f BEAUMONT, FRANCIS (1584-1616). \ 

\ FLETCHER, JOHN (1579-1625). J 

Bridal Song. 97 

“Lay a garland on my hearse”. 212 

Lines on the Tombs in Westminster Abbey 

(Beaumont). 522 

‘Look out, bright eyes”. 184 

Melancholia (Fletcher). 676 

Power of Love (Fletcher). 169 








































































vi 


INDEX OF AUTHORS. 


Page 


“Shepherds all and maidens fair”. 499 

Song—"Care-charming sleep”. 762 

To Pan. 433 

Weep no more (Fletcher). 759 

BEAUMONT, SIR JOHN (1583-1627). 

On my Dear Son, Gervase Beaumont.228 

BEDDOES, THOMAS LOVELL (1803-1849). 

Dirge. 178 

How Many Times. 102 

BEERS, ETHEL LYNN (1827-1879). 

All Quiet Along the Potomac. 349 

On the Shores of Tennessee. 367 

What Shall it Be?. 45 

BEERS, HENRY AUGUSTIN (1847-). 

Carcamon. 406 

BENNETT, WILLIAM COX (1820-). 

Baby May. 29 

BERKELY, GEORGE (1685-1753). 

On the Prospect of Planting Arts and Learn¬ 
ing in America. 721 

BERNARD DE MORLAIX, Monk of Cluny 
(XII. CENTURY). 

The Celestial Country. 624 

BISHOP, SAMUEL (1731-1795). 

To Mary. 10 

BLACKSTONE, SIR WILLIAM (1723-1780). 

The Lawyer’s Farewell to his Muse. 736 

BLAKE, WILLIAM (1757-1827). 

Charity Children at St. Paul’s. 43 

Introduction to “Songs of Innocence”. 68 

“My silks and fine array”. 190 

On Another’s Sorrow. 609 

Song—“How Sweet I Roamed”. 122 

The Lamb. 452 

The Little Black Boy. 37 

The Tiger. 498 

To the Muses. 752 

BLAMIRE, SUSANNA (1747-1794). 

The Nabob. 93 

The Siller Croun. 147 

“What ails this heart o’ mine?”. 199 

BLOOD, HENRY AMES (1838-). 

The Last Visitor. 659 

BOKER, GEORGE HENRY (1823-1890). 

Dirge for a Soldier. 277 

BONAR, HORATIUS (1808-1890). 

A Little While. 615 

“Come unto Me”. 620 

The Inner Calm.585 

Thy Way, Not Mine. 608 

BOOTH, BARTON (1681-1733). 

“Sweet are the charms”. 154 

BOTTA, ANNE CHARLOTTE LYNCH (1815- 
1891). 

Thoughts in a Library. 736 

BOURDILLON, FRANCIS W. (1852-). 

Light. 146 


Page 

BOWKER, RICHARD ROGERS (1848-). 

Thomas a Kempis. 584 

BOWLES, WILLIAM LISLE (1762-1850). 

Influence of Time on Grief. 706 

On the Funeral of Charles 1. 313 

BOWRING, SIR JOHN (1792-1872). 

“God is Love”. 564 

“Watchman, tell us of the night”. 543 

BRAINARD, JOHN GARDINER CALKINS 
(1796-1828). 

Epithalamium. 220 

Niagara. 538 

BRENAN, JOSEPH (1829-1857). 

The Exile to his Wife. 11 

J 

BRETON, NICHOLAS (1545?-1626?). 

A Pastoral. 182 

Phillida and Corydon. 145 

BROOKS, MARIA GOWEN (1795-1845). 

"Day in melting purple dying. 170 

BROOKS, PHILLIPS (1835-1893). 

"O Little Town of Bethlehem”. 574 

BROWNE, FRANCES (1816-1864). 

Is it come?. 746 

Losses _. 700 

“Oh, the pleasant days of old!”... 745 

BROWNE, SIR THOMAS (1605-1682). 

Evening Hymn. 576 

BROWNE, WILLIAM (1591-1043?). 

"Shall I tell you whom I love?”. 123 

The Welcome. 125 

BROWNELL, HENRY HOWARD (1820-1872). 
Burial of the Dane. 650 

BROWNING, ELIZABETH BARRETT (1809- 
1S61). 

A Court Lady. 361 

A Musical Instrument. 721 

Cowper’s Grave. 248 

Lady Geraldine’s Courtship. 104 

Mother and Poet. 26 

Rhyme of the Duchess May. 423 

Sleeping and Watching. 33 

Sonnets from the Portuguese— 

XXXVIII. "First time he kissed me, he 

but only kiss’d” ..'. 135 

XLIII. “How do I love thee? let me count 

the ways”. 135 

XXXV. “If I leave all for thee, wilt thou 

exchange”. 135 

XIV. “If thou must love me, let it be for 

naught”. 134 

XVIII. “I never gave a lock of hair away”. 134 
XXVIII. "My letters! all dead paper . . . 

mute and white”. 135 

XXI. "Say over again, and yet once over 

again". 134 

The Cry of the Children. 63 

The Forced Recruit at Solferino. 364 

The Lady’s Yes. 138 

The Sleep ,,,.. 642 





















































































INDEX OF AUTHORS. 


VII 


BROWNING, ROBERT (1812-1889). 

Earl Mertoun’s Song. 

Evelyn Hope. 

How they Brought the Good News. 

In a Year. 

Incident of the French Camp. 

Marching Along. 

The Lost Leader. 

BRYANT, WILLIAM CULLEN (1794-1878). 

Song of Marion’s Men. 

Thanatopsis. 

The Battle-Field. 

The Crowded Street. 

The Death of the Flowers. 

The Hunter ot the Prairies. 

The Living Lost. 

To a Water-Fowl. 

To the Fringed Gentian. 

BRYDGES, SIR SAMUEL EGERTON (1762- 
1837). 

Echo and Silence. 

BUCHANAN, ROBERT (1841-1901). 

Hermione.'. 

Langley Lane. 

TomDunstan; or, the Politician.. 

BUNNER, HENRY CUYLER (1855-1896). 

To a Dead W Oman. 

BURNS, ROBERT (1759-1796). 

A Man’s a Man for a’ that. 

A Red, Red Rose. 

Auld Lang Syne. 

Bonnie Lesley. 

Bruce to his Men at Bannockburn. 

Duncan Gray. 

Elegy on Captain Matthew Henderson. 

Farewell to Nancy. 

‘‘Flow gently. Sweet Afton”. 

Highland Mary. 

I love my Jean. 

Jessy—“Here’s a health to ane I lo’e dear” .. 

John Anderson . 

Mary Morison. 

“My heart’s in the Highlands”. 

My Wife’s a Winsome Wee Thing. 

Tam O’Shanter. 

The Banks of Doon. 

The Cotter’s Saturday Night. 

The Lovely Lass o’ Inverness. 

To a Mountain Daisy. 

To a Mouse. 

To Mary in Heaven.. 

BURTON, JOHN (1773-1822). 

"Holy Bible, book divine”. 

BYROM, JOHN (1692-1763). 

A Pastoral. 

Careless Content. 

Christmas Carol. 

Epigram on Two Monopolists. 

Jacobite Toast. 

BYRON, GEORGE GORDON, LORD (1788- 
1824). 

A Very Mournful Ballad on the Siege and 

Conquest of Alhama. 

And thou Art Dead, as Young and Fair. 


Page 

Fare thee Well. 15 

Maid of Athens. 145 

Oh, Snatched Away in Beauty’s Bloom.741 

Oh Talk Not to Me of a Name Great in Story. 157 
On this Day I Complete my Thirty-sixth 

Year. 88 

She Walks in Beauty. 739 

Song of the Greek Poet. 360 

The Destruction of Sennacherib. 283 

The Prisoner of Chillon. 400 

There be None of Beauty’s Daughters. 157 

There’s not a Joy the World can Give.676 

When Coldness Wraps this Suffering Clay ... 645 
When We Two Parted. 86 

CAMPBELL, MARY MAXWELL. 

Lament for Glencoe. 343 

CAMPBELL, THOMAS (1777-1844). 

Adelgitha. 445 

Battle of the Baltic. 340 

Hallowed Ground. 653 

Hohenlinden. 339 

LochiePs Warning.. 322 

Lord Ullin's Daughter. 383 

“Men of England”. 356 

The Exile of Erin. 359 

The Soldier’s Dream. 83 

To the Evening Star. 456 

To the Rainbow. 453 

Ye Mariners of England. 356 

CAREW, THOMAS (15987-1639?). 

“Ask me no more where Jove bestows”. 192 

Disdain Returned. 180 

Epitaph on the Lady Mary Villiers ..276 

The Airs of Spring.440 

CAREY, HENRY (16637-1743). 

God Save the King. 355 

Maiden's Choice. 210 

Sally in our Alley. 120 

CARY, ALICE (1820-1871). 

Her Last Verses. 649 

CARY, PHCEBE (1824-1871). 

Nearer Home. 607 

CELONA, THOMAS DE (1253-). 

Dies Irse. 629 


CENNECK, JOHN (1718-1755). 

Hymn—“Children of the heavenly King” ... 594 


CHALKHILL, JOHN (1600-1679). 

The Angler. 472 

CHANDLER, BESSIE. 

Jacqueminot. 282 

CHANDLER, ELIZABETH MARGARET 
(1807-1834). 

On returning a Copy of Halleck’s Poems. 534 

CHATTERTON, THOMAS (1752-1770). 

The Minstrel’s Song in “Aella”. 147 

The Resignation .—. 585 

CHAUCER, GOEFFREY (1340-1400). 

Good Counseil. 718 

CIBBER, COLLEY (1671-1757). 

The Blind Boy. 67 


Page 

. 144 

. 196 

. 374 

. 211 

. 340 

. 311 

. 264 

. 330 

. 644 

. 696 

. 667 

. 465 

. 498 

. 702 

. 475 

. 464 

. 506 

7 

. 203 

760 

. 142 

762 

157 

81 

145 

296 

144 

249 

154 

533 

120 

126 

166 

8 

147 

358 

9 

769 

170 

3 

699 

463 

487 

137 

582 

173 

680 

551 

765 

311 

296 

740 







































































































viii 


INDEX OF AUTHORS. 


Page 


CLARE, JOHN (1793-1864 . 

His Last Verses . 638 

July. 441 

The Thrush’s Nest. 480 

To the Glowworm . 487 

CLEPHANE, ELIZABETH C. (1830-1869). 

The Ninety and Nine. 601 

CLOUGH, ARTHUR HUGH (1819-1861). 

Qua Cursum Ventus. 742 

Stream of Life. 634 

Where Lies the Land. 520 

COATES, FLORENCE EARLE. 

Man. 694 

Song—"For me the jasmine buds unfold” ... 102 

COATES, REYNELL, (1802-1886). 

Christian Charity. 697 

COLERIDGE, HARTLEY (1796-1849). 

Address to Certain Gold-fishes. 473 

November. 468 

"She is not fair to outward view”. 172 

The First Man. 740 

“ ’Tis sweet to hear the merry lark”. 476 

COLERIDGE, SAMUEL TAYLOR(1772-1834). 

Answer to a Child’s Question .. 479 

Cologne. 771 

Epigram on a Bad Singer. 768 

Epitaph on an Infant. 708 

Fancy in Nubibus; or, the Poet in the Clouds. 455 

France. An Ode. 332 

Genevieve . 155 

Hymn before Sunrise in the Vale of Cha- 

mouni. 536 

Kubla Khan; or, a Vision in a Dream. 765 

Love . 100 

The Good. Great Man. 682 

The Knight’s Tomb. 646 

Youth and Age. 94 

COLLINS, JOHN (XVIII. CENTURY) (d. 
1808). 

"In the downhill of life”. 694 

COLLINS, WILLIAM (1721-1759). 

Dirge in Cymbeline. 657 

Ode—"How sleep the brave". 363 

Ode on the Death of Mr. Thomson. 246 

Ode to Evening. 449 

The Passions. 728 

CONGREVE, WILLIAM (1670-1729). 

Amoret. 155 

Lesbia. 155 

CONOLLY, ERSKINE (1796-1843). 

Mary Macneil. 201 

CONSTABLE, HENRY (1562-1513). 

Diaphenia. 179 

“To live in hell, and heaven to behold”. 212 

COOK, ELIZA (1817-1889). 

The Old Arm-Chair. 73 

COOKE, PHILIP PENDLETON (1816-1850). 

Florence Vane .. 171 

COOKE, ROSE TERRY (1827-1892). 

Reve du Midi ... 442 


Page 


CORBET, RICHARD (1582-1635). 

To Vincent Corbet, my Son. 235 

COTTON, CHARLES (1630-1687). 

Invitation to Izaak Walton.471 

The Retirement. 499 

COTTON, NATHANIEL (1705-1788). 

The Fireside. 2 

COWLEY, ABRAHAM (1616-1667). 

A Fragment. 142 

A Supplication. 121 

Drinking. 455 

Epitaph on a Living Author. 228 

Of Myself. 235 

Of Solitude. 438 

The Chronicle. A Ballad. 221 

COWPER, WILLIAM (1731-1800). 

Boadicea. An Ode. 367 

Joy and Peace in Believing. 593 

Light Shining out of Darkness. 563 

"Lovest thou Me?”. 561 

On the Receipt of my Mother’s Picture. 15 

Praise for the Fountain Opened. 620 

Retirement. 602 

The Diverting History of John Gilpin. 772 

The Poplar Field. 451 

To Mary . 247 

To Mrs. Unwin. 247 

Verses supposed to be Written by Alexander 

Selkirk. 699 

Walking with God. 584 

COXE, ARTHUR CLEVELAND (1818-1896). 

Christmas Carol. 550 

The Heart’s Song. 595 


CRABBE, GEORGE (1754-1832). 

Hymn—“Pilgrim burdened with thy sin” ... 585 


CRAIK, DINAH MARIA (MULOCK), (1826- 
1887). 

A Christmas Carol. 553 

A Lancashire Doxology. 603 

Now and Afterwards. 640 

Philip my King. 30 

Too Late. 17 

CRASHAW, RICHARD (1613?-1649). 

Epitaph upon a Husband and Wife. 655 

On a Prayer-Book. 606 

Wishes for the Supposed Mistress. 121 

CRAWFORD, ANNE BARRY . 

Kathleen Mavourneen. 209 

CROSS, MARIAN EVANS (1819-1880). 

“O may I join the choir invisible”. 616 

CUNNINGHAM, ALLAN (1784-1842). 

“A wet sheet and a flowing sea”). 509 

“Gane were but the winter cauld”. 658 

It’s Hame and it’s Hame. 357 

She’s gane to Dwall in Heaven. 218 

The Poet’s Bridal-Day Song. 18 

"The Sun rises Bright in France”. 358 

"Thou hast sworn by thy God, my Jeanie”.. . 157 

CUNNINGHAM, JOHN (1729-1773). 

Content. A Pastoral. 747 



























































































INDEX OF AUTHORS. 


Page 

DANA, RICHARD HENRY (1787-1879). . 


The Little Beach-Bird. 475 

DANIEL, SAMUEL (1562-1619). 

“Love is a sickness”. 98 

Sleep. 759 

To the Lady Margaret, Countess of Cumber¬ 
land . 232 

DARLEY, GEORGE (1795-1846). 

Loveliness of Love. 139 

The Call...... 178 

DARWIN, ERASMUS (1731-1802). 

Song to May. 440 

DAVENANT, SIR WILLIAM (1606-1668). 

“The lark now leaves his watery nest” ...... 476 

DAVIS, FRANCIS. 

The Fisherman’s Song. 510 

DAVIS, THOMAS OSBORNE (1814-1845). 

Fontenoy. 320 

The Sack of Baltimore. 342 

The Welcome. 158 

DEKKER, THOMAS (15707-1641?). 

Lullaby. 32 

Sweet Content .. 680 

DE VERE, AUBREY THOMAS (1814-1902). 

“Sad is our youth”. 634 

DIBDIN, CHARLES (1745-1814). 

Anne Hathaway. 281 

Poor Jack. 512 

The High-Mettled Racer. 492 

Tom Bowling. 659 

DICKENS, CHARLES (1812-1870). - 

The Ivy Green. 465 

DICKINSON, CHARLES MONROE (1842-). 

The Children. 62 

DIMOND, WILLIAM (1800-1837). 

The Mariner’s Dream. 510 

DIX, JOHN ADAMS (1798-1879). 

DIX, WILLIAM CHATTERTON (1837-). 

Translation of Dies Irse. 631 

Epiphany. 621 

DOANE, GEORGE WASHINGTON (1799- 
1859). 

Evening Contemplation. 572 

DOBELL, SIDNEY THOMPSON (1824-1874). 

How’s my Boy?. 67 

Tommy’s Dead. 640 

DOBSON, HENRY AUSTIN (1840—). * 

The Child Musician. 44 

DODDRIDGE, PHILIP (1702-1751). 

Confirmation Hymn. 585 

Epigram—Dum Vivimus, Vivamus. 594 

“Hark! the glad sound” . 553 

“Ye golden lamps of heaven, farewell”. 608 

DOMETT, ALFRED (1811-1887). 

A Christmas Hymn. 549 

DONNE, JOHN (1573-1631). 

Hymn to God the Father. 621 

Valediction forbidding Mourning. 661 


Page 

DORR, JULIA CAROLINE (RIPLEY), (1825- 


-)• 

Twenty-One. 44 

DORSET, CHARLES SACKVILLE, EARL OF 
(1637-1705). 

“Dorinda’s sparkling wit and eyes”. 127 

DOTEN, ELIZABETH (1829-). 

Song of the North. 422 

DOUGLAS, WILLIAM (1660?-). 

Maxwelton Banks. 787 

DOWLING, BARTHOLOMEW (-1868). 

Battle of Fontenoy. 321 

DOYLE, SIR FRANCIS HASTINGS (1810- 
1888). 

The Doncaster St. Leger. 413 

The Old Cavalier. 311 

DRAKE, JOSEPH RODMAN (1795-1820). 

The American Flag. 353 

DRAYTON, MICHAEL (1563-1631). 

“Since there’s no help, come, let us kiss and 

part”. 170 

The Ballad of Agincourt. 299 

The Rivers of England . 521 

DRUMMOND, WILLIAM (1585-1649). 

“Alexis, here she stay’d”. 180 

“A good that never satisfies the mind”.676 

Beauty Fades. 739 

For the Baptist. 629 

“I know that all beneath the moon decay” .. . 215 

No Trust in Time. 754 

The Lessons of Nature. 470 

To a Nightingale. 481 

To his Lute. 732 

To Spring. 433 

To the Nightingale. 482 

DRYDEN, JOHN (1631-1700). 

A Song for St. Cecilia’s Day. 724 

Alexander’s Feast; or, the Power of Music ... 722 

Under Mr. Milton’s Picture. 242 

Veni Creator Spiritus, paraphrased. 563 

1 DUFFERIN, HELEN SELINA SHERIDAN, 
LADY (1807-1867). 

Lament of the Irish Emigrant. 86 

DWIGHT, TIMOTHY (1752-1817). 

“Hove Thy kingdom, Lord”. 594 

DYER, SIR EDWARD (15507-1607). 

“My minde to me a kingdom is”. 735 

DYER, JOHN (17007-1758). 

Grongar Hill. 524 

EASTMAN, CHARLES GAMAGE (1816-1861). 

A Picture. 6 

Dirge. 658 

EDMESTON, JAMES (1791-1867). 

“Lead us, Heavenly Father, lead us”.605 

ELLIOT, SIR GILBERT (1722-1777). 

Amynta. 200 

ELLIOT, JANE (1727-1805). 

The Flowers of the Forest 


307 
















































































X 


INDEX OF AUTHORS. 


/ 


Page 


ELLIOTT, CHARLOTTE (1789-1871). 

“Just as I am”. 588 

“O Thou, the contrite sinner’s friend”. 559 

“Thy will be done. 586 

ELLIOTT, EBENEZER (1781-1849). 

A Poet’s Epitaph. 698 

ELVEN, CORNELIUS (1797-1873). 

“With broken heart and contrite sigh”. 582 

EMERSON, RALPH WALDO (1803-1882). 

Concord Hymn. 367 

Good-Bye. 677 

The Humble-Bee. 486 

The Problem. 683 

The Rhodora. 464 

To Eva. 216 

EVERETT, EDWARD (1794-1865). 

Dirge of Alaric the Visigoth. 292 

EWEN, JOHN (1741-1821). 

The Boatie Rows. 516 

FABER, FREDERICK WILLIAM (1814-1863). 

Evening Hymn. 576 

The Right must Win. 592 

The Will of God. 586 

FANSHAWE, CATHERINE MARIA (1765- 
1834). 

A Riddle. The letter H. 778 

FENNER, CORNELIUS GEORGE(1822-1847) 
Gulf-Weed . 517 

FERGUSON, SIR SAMUEL (1810-1886). 

The Forging of the Anchor. 507 


Page 

GILMAN, CAROLINE (HOWARD), (1794- 


1888). 

The Household Woman. 24 

GLADDEN, WASHINGTON (1836-). 

Pastor’s Reverie. 92 

GLEN, WILLIAM (1789-1826). 

Wae’s me for Prince Charlie. 325 

GOLDSMITH, OLIVER (1728-1774). 

Elegy on the Death of a Mad Dog. 771 

Stanzas on Woman. 707 

The Hermit. 159 

“The wretch condemned with life to part” .. . 758 

GORDON, ADAM LINDSAY (1833-1870). 

How we Beat the Favorite. 397 

GOULD, HANNAH FLAGG (1789-1865). 

A Name in the Sand. 678 

GRAHAM, ROBERT, of Gartmore (1750- 
1797). 

Tell me how to woo thee. 161 

GRANT, ANNE (1755-1838). 

On a Sprig of Heath. 456 

GRANT, SIR ROBERT (1779-1838). 

Litany. 559 

"When gathering clouds around I view”. 589 

GRAY, THOMAS (1716-1771). 

Elegy Written in a Country Churchyard. 650 

On a Distant Prospect of Eton College.522 

On the Spring. 435 

The Bard. 294 

The Progress of Poesy. 726 


FIELD, EUGENE (1850-1895). 

Little Boy Blue. 72 

FIELDING, HENRY (1707-1754). 

A Hunting We Will Go. 497 

FIELDS, JAMES THOMAS (1817-1881). 

Ballad of the Tempest. 38 

FLETCHER, GILES (1588-1623). 

Panglory’s Wooing Song. 98 

FLETCHER, PHINEAS (15827-1650?). 

“Drop, drop, slow tears”. 564 

FLOWERDEW, ALICE (1759-1830). 

“Fountain of mercy! God of love!”.583 

FORD, JOHN (1586-16407). 

Awakening Song. 752 

Calantha’s Dirge—Love and Death. 203 

FOSTER, STEPHEN COLLINS (1826-1864). 

My Old Kentucky Home. 24 

Old Folks at Home. 18 

GALL, RICHARD (1766-1801). 

My only Jo and Dearie, O. 203 

GARRICK, DAVID (1717-1779). 

On Dr. Hill’s Farces. 765 

GAY, JOHN (1685-1732). 

Sweet William’s Farewell to Black-Eyed 

Susan. 119 

“ 'Twas when the seas were roaring”. 125 

GILFILLAN, ROBERT (1798-1850). 

The Exile’s Song . 362 


GREENE, ALBERT GORTON (1802-1868). 

Old Grimes. 768 

The Baron’s Last Banquet. 641 

GREENE, ROBERT (1560-1592). 

Content. 680 

Samela. 102 

GRIGG, JOSEPH (-). 

“Ashamed of Me”. 619 

GRINFIELD, THOMAS (1788-1870). 

“Oh how kindly hast Thou led me”. 590 

GURNEY, ARCHER THOMPSON (1820-1887). 
“Come, ye Lofty”. 550 

HABINGTON, WILLIAM (1605-1654). 

Castara. 179 

HALLECK, FITZ-GREENE (1790-1867). 

Alnwick Castle. 531 

Burns... 251 

Marco Bozzaris. 346 

On the Death of Joseph Rodman Drake.254 

HALPINE, CHARLES GRAHAM (1829-1868). 

The Trooper to his Mare. 497 

HAMILTON, ELIZABETH (1758-1816). 

My Ain Fireside. 1 

HAMILTON, WTLLIAM (of Bangour), (1704- 
1754). 

The Braes of Yarrow. 384 

HARRINGTON, SIR JOHN (1534-1582). 

Epigram—Treason. 759 

Lines on Isabella Markham. 124 











































































INDEX OF AUTHORS. 


xi 


Page 

HART, JOSEPH (1712-1768). 

Come and Welcome to Jesus Christ. 569 

HARTE, FRANCIS BRET (1839-1902). 

Dickens in Camp. 280 

Fate. 758 

Her Letter. 207 

HASTINGS, THOMAS (1784-1872). 

In Sorrow. 563 

HAYERGAL,FRANCES RIDLEY (1836-1879). 

Bells Across th© Snow. 555 

HAWEIS, THOMAS (1734-1820). 

“O Thou from whom all goodness flows” .... 604 

HAWKER, ROBERT STEPHEN (1804-1875). 

Song of the Cornishmen. 343 

HAYNE, PAUL HAMILTON (1830-1886). 

By the Autumn Sea. 520 

HEATH, LYMAN (1804-1870). 

Grave of Bonaparte. 252 

HEBER, REGINALD (1783-1826). 

Epiphany .. 554 

"Help, Lord, or we perish. 579 

Hymn for First Sunday after Epiphany. 595 

Hymn for Trinity Sunday. 566 

Lines Addressed to his Wife. 9 

Missionary Hymn. 600 

Stanzas on the Death of a Friend. 614 

HEMANS, FELICIA DOROTHEA (1793-1835). 

A Dirge. 708 

Casabianca. 344 

The Graves of a Household. 28 

The Homes of England. 1 

The Landing of the Pilgrim Fathers. 309 

The Treasures of the Deep . 517 

HERBERT, GEORGE (1593-1633). 

Life. 754 

Sunday. 580 

The Elixir. 564 

The Flower. 599 

The Pulley. 682 

Vertue. 682 

HERRICK, ROBERT (1591-1674). 

A Thanksgiving to God for His House. 579 

Cherry Ripe. 214 

Corrina’s going a-Maying. 436 

Delight in Disorder. 738 

Litany to the Holy Spirit. 612 

The Night Piece. To Julia. 127 

The Primrose. 214 

To Anthea who may Command him Any¬ 
thing . 221 

To Blossoms.I 466 

To Daffodils. 462 

To Dianeme. 210 

To Keep a True Lent. 607 

To Music, to Becalm his Fever. 752 

To Primroses filled with Morning Dew.461 

To Virgins, to make much of Time. 123 

HEYWOOD, THOMAS (d. about 1650). 

Good-Morrow Song. 215 

Go, Pretty Birds. 162 


Page 


HILL, AARON (1685-1750).. 

How to Deal with Common Natures. 708 

HINDS, SAMUEL (1793-1872). 

Sleeping Babe, The. 45 

HOBART, MRS. CHARLES. 

Changed Cross. 610 

HOFFMAN, CHARLES FENNO (1806-1884). 

Monterey. 347 

HOGG, JAMES (1770-1835). 

Bonnie Prince Charlie. 325 

Charlie is my Darling. 324 

"I hae naebody now”. 83 

The Skylark. 477 

When Maggie gangs away. 161 

When the Kye comes Hame. 167 

HOLCROFT, THOMAS (1745-1809). 

Gaffer Gray. 710 

HOLLAND, JOSIAH GILBERT (1819-1881). 

The Heart of the War. 365 

HOLMES, OLIVER WENDELL (1809-1894). 

Old Ironsides. 366 

The Boys. 80 

The Chambered Nautilus. 4f 4 

The Last Leaf. 753 

The Voiceless. 646 

HOOD, THOMAS (1799-1845). 

A Serenade. 765 

Faithless Nelly Gray. 776 

Faithless Sally Brown. 777 

“I remember, I remember”. 73 

Ruth. 144 

Stanzas—“Farewell, life”. 657 

The Bridge of Sighs. 714 

The Death-bed. 645 

The Dream of Eugene Aram. 377 

The Lady’s Dream. 709 

The Song of the Shirt ... 711 

To a Child Embracing his Mother. 35 

HOOPER, LUCY HAMILTON (1835-1893). 

Three Loves. 156 

HOUGHTON, RICHARD MONCKTON 
MILNES, LORD (1809-1885). 

Good-Night and Good-Morning. 72 

Brookside. 169 

The Men of Old. 745 

HOW, WILLIAM WALSHAM (1823-1897). 

“Behold, I stand at the door and knock”. 570 

"O word of God incarnate”. 605 

HOWE, JULIA (WARD), (1819—). 

Battle Hymn of the Republic. 354 

HOWELL, ELIZABETH (LLOYD), (1811- 
1896). 

Milton’s Prayer of Patience. 237 

HOWITT, MARY (1799-1888). 

The Spider and the Fly. An Apologue.707 

The Use of Flowers. 464 

HUNT, LEIGH (1784-1859). 

Abou Ben Adhem .684 

An Angel in the House. 741 

Rondeau—“Jenny Kissed me” . 186 






























































































Xll 


INDEX OF AUTHORS. 


Page 


Songs of the Flowers. 458 

The Glove and the Lions. 413 

The Nile. 535 

The Nun. 171 

To the Grasshopper and Cricket. 486 

To T. L. H., Six Years Old, during a Sickness. 36 

HUNTER, ANNE (1742-1821). 

The Lot of Thousands. 705 

INGELOW, JEAN (1820-1897). 

Songs of Seven. 19 

The High Tide on the Coast of Lincolnshire .. 417 

IRONS, WILLIAM JOSIAH (1812-1883). 

Translation of Dies Ira. 630 

JACKSON, HELEN HUNT (1831-1885). 

Coronation. 760 

JAMES I. OF ENGLAND (1566-1625). 

To Prince Henry. 702 

JANVIER, MARGARET THOMSON (1845-). 

The Clown’s Baby. 52 

JOHNSON, SAMUEL (1709-1784). 

On the Death of Dr. Levett. 247 

The Vanity of Human Wishes. 669 

JONES, SIR WILLIAM (1746-1794). . 

An Ode—In Imitation of Alcaeus. 363 

The Babe (translation). 50 

JONSON, BEN (1573-1637). 

Epigram on Sir Francis Drake. 227 

Epitaph on Elizabeth L. H.235 

Epitaph on Salathiel Pavy. 234 

Epitaph on the Countess of Pembroke.235 

Good Life, Long Life .698 

Lines on the Portrait of Shakespeare .232 

On Lucy, Countess of Bedford. 235 

Song—“Follow a Shadow, it still flies you” .. 124 

Song—“ Still to be neat”. 738 

The Triumph of Charis . 160 | 

To Celia. 195 

To Cynthia. 455 

To Himself. 227 

To the Memory of my Beloved Master, Wil¬ 
liam Shakespeare. 230 

JUDSON, EMILY CHUBBOCK (1817-1854). 

My Bird. 29 

KEATS, JOHN (1795-1821). 

Lines on the Mermaid Tavern. 522 

On a Grecian Urn. 744 j 

On First Looking into Chapman’s Homer .... 737 

On the Grasshopper and Cricket. 486 

The Eve of St. Agnes. 127 

To a Nightingale. 482 

To Autumn. 444 

To Fancy. 504 

“To one who has been long in city pent”. 503 

To the Poets. 738 

KEBLE, JOHN (1792-1866). 

Evening. 574 

Flowers. 457 

Morning. 573 

KEMBLE, FRANCES ANNE (1809-1893). 

Absence. 101 | 

Faith. 699 , 


Page 


KEN, THOMAS (1637-1711). 

Evening Hymn. 575 

Midnight Hymn. 577 

Morning Hymn. 573 

KENYON, JAMES BENJAMIN (1858-). 

The King is Dying. 760 

KEPPEL, LADY CAROLINE (1735-). 

Robin Adair. 102 

KETHE, WILLIAM (d. 1608?). 

Psalm C. 621 

KEY, FRANCIS SCOTT (1780-1843). 

"Lord, with glowing heart I’d praise Thee” .. 568 
The Star-Spangled Banner. 353 

KIMBALL, HARRIET McEWEN (1834-). 

All’s Well. 613 

KING, HENRY (1591-1669). 

Life. 698 

Sic Vita. 718 

KINGSLEY, CHARLES (1819-1875). 

A Farewell. 48 

A Parable from Leibig. 582 

The Last Buccaneer. 421 

The Sands o’Dee. 419 

The Three Fishes. 513 

KIPLING, RUDYARD (1865-). 

Recessional. 720 

KNOWLES, HERBERT (1798-1817). 

Lines written in Richmond Churchyard, 
Yorkshire. 653 

KNOX, WILLIAM (1789-1825). 

“Oh why should the spirit of mortal be 
proud?". 647 

LAMB, CHARLES (1775-1834). 

Hester. 280 

On an Infant dying as soon as born. 55 

The Old Familiar Faces. 77 

LANDOR, WALTER SAVAGE (1775-1864). 

Children. 36 

How many voices. 695 

Sixteen. 214 

The Maid’s Lament. 141 

The One Gray Hair. 749 

To the Sister of Elia. 274 

LAPRAIK, JOHN (1727-1807). 

Matrimonial Happiness. 7 

LARCOM, LUCY (1826-1893). 

Hannah Binding Shoes. 512 

LEIGH, HENRY SAMBROOKE (1837-1883). 

The Twins. 776 

L’ESTRANGE, SIR ROGER (1616-1704). 

Loyalty Confined. 243 

LEYDEN, JOHN (1775-1811). 

Ode to an Indian Gold Coin. 87 

The Sabbath Morning. 448 

To the Evening Star. 456 

LIPPINCOTT, SARA JANE (“Grace Green¬ 
wood”), (1823-). 

The Horseback Ride. 463 























































































INDEX OF AUTHORS. 


Mil 


Page ' 

LOCKER-LAMPSON, FREDERICK (1821- 


1895). 

A Nice Correspondent. 202 

Old Letters. 88 


LOCKHART, JOHN GIBSON (1794-1854). 

Napoleon.269 

The Bridal of Andalla {Translation) .209 

The Bull-Fight of Gazul {Translation) .410 

The Lamentation of Celin {Translation) . 375 

The Lamentation of Don Roderick ( Transla¬ 
tion ). 293 

Zara’s Ear-rings (Translation) ... 183 

LODGE, THOMAS (15587-1525). 

Rosader’s Sonetto. 156 

Rosalind’s Madrigal. 98 

Rosaline. 123 


LOGAN, JOHN (1748-1788). 

Heavenly Wisdom. 

The Braes of Yarrow. 

To the Cuckoo. 

LONGFELLOW, HENRY WADSWORTH 
(1807—1882). 

A Psalm of Life. 

Excelsior . 

Footsteps of Angels. 

Maidenhood . 

Old St. David’s at Radnor. 

Paul Revere’s Ride. 

Resignation. 

The Arsenal at Springfield. 

The Children’s Hour . 

The Day is Done. 

The Old Clock on the Stairs. 

The Village Blacksmith . 

Wreck of the Hesperus . 


595 

386 

485 


635 

758 I 
757 ! 

66 

540 

328 

666 

539 

45 

759 
76 

739 

514 


LORD, WILLIAM WILBERFORCE (1819- 

-). 

On the Defeat of Henry Clay.. 270 


Page 


LYTE, HENRY FRANCIS (1739-1847). 

Abide with Me... 577 

“Jesus, I my cross have taken”. 559 

"Long did I toil”. 589 

Psalm LXXXIV. 620 

LYTLE, WILLIAM HAINES (1826-1863). 

Antony and Cleopatra. 290 


LYTTON, EDWARD GEORGE EARLE LYT- 
TON BULWER (Baron Lytton), (1803- 
1873). 


“When stars are in the quiet skies”. 218 

LYTTON, EDWARD ROBERT BULWER 
(Earl of Lytton), (1831-1891). 

Aux Italiens. 180 

The Chess-Board. 85 

The Portrait. 199 

MACAULAY, THOMAS BABINGTON (Loro 
Macaulay), (1800-1859). 

Horatius. 283 

Ivry. A Song of the Huguenots. 308 

Naseby. 312 

MACDONALD, GEORGE (1824-). 

"Where did you come from?”. 31 

MACKAY, CHARLES (1814-1889). 

"I lay in sorrow, deep distressed”. 707 

I Love my Love. 146 

The Good Time Coming. 748 

The Sailor’s Wife. 25 

MACKAY, MARGARET (1802-1887). 

Asleep in Jesus. 602 

MACLEAN, LHSTITIA ELIZABETH (LAN- 
DON), ("L. E. L.”) (1802-1838). 

Crescentius. 293 

An Awakening of Endymion. 172 

MACNEILL, HECTOR (1746-1818)... 

Mary of Castle Cary. 164 


LOVELACE, RICHARD (1618-1658). 

To Althea, from Prison. 124 

To Lucasta, on going beyond the Seas. ... 125 

To Lucasta, on going to the Wars. 124 

LOVER, SAMUEL (1797-1868). 

Rory O’More; or, Good Omens. 165 

The Angels’ Whisper. 33 

The Low-Back’d Car. 165 

LOWELL, JAMES RUSSELL (1819-1891). 

Auf Wiedersehen . 217 

My Love . 209 

Palinode. 217 

The Courtin’ . 763 

The First Snowfall . 446 

What Mr. Robinson Thinks. 778 

LOWELL, MARIA WHITE (1821-1853). 

The Alpine Sheep. 658 

The Morning Glory. 49 

LOWELL, ROBERT TRAILL SPENCE 
(1816-1891). 

The Relief of Lucknow. 347 

LUKE, JEMIMA THOMPSON (1813-). 

“Of Such is the Kingdom of Heaven”. 588 

LYLY, JOHN (1554-1606). 

Cupid and Campaspe. 99 

Song of the Fairies. 779 

The Songs of Birds. 484 


MAHONY, FRANCIS SYLVESTER (1804- 
1866). 

The Bells of Shandon. 534 

MALLET, DAVID (17057-1765). 

William and Margaret. 175 

MANGAN, JAMES CLARENCE (1803-1849). 

Napoleon’s Midnight Review. 269 

MARLOWE, CHRISTOPHER (1564-1593). 

The Milkmaid’s Song. 140 

MARVELL, ANDREW (1621-1678). 

An Horatian Ode upon Cromwell's Return 

from Ireland. 240 

The Emigrants in the Bermudas. 521 

The Nymph Complaining for the Death of her 

Fawn . 505 

The Picture of T. C. in a Prospect of Flowers.. 242 

Thoughts in a Garden. 501 

MAYNE, JOHN (1759-1836). 

Helen of Kirkconnell. 405 

Logan Braes. 179 

McCarthy, denis Florence ( 1820 - 
1882). 

Summer Longings. 437 

McCHEYNE, ROBERT MURRAY (1813- 
1843). 

Jehovah Tsidkenu. 569 

























































































INDEX OF AUTHORS. 


xiv 


Page 

McMASTER, GUY HUMPHREY (1829-1887). 


Carmen Bellicosum. 330 

MERRICK, JAMES (1720-1769). 

The Chameleon. 706 

MESSINGER, ROBERT HINCKLEY (1811- 
1874). 

Give me the Old. 747 

MICKLE, WILLIAM JULIUS (1735-1788). 

Cumnor Hall. 381 

MIDDLETON, THOMAS (15707-1627). 

What Love is Like. 184 

MILLER, WILLIAM (1810-1872). 

The Wonderfu’Wean. 42 

Willie Winkie. 41 

MILMAN, HENRY HART (1791-1868). 

“Bound upon th’ accursed tree”. 555 

Bridal Song. 220 

Burial Hymn. 615 

Christ Crucified. 554 

“When our heads are bowed with woe”. 602 

MILTON, JOHN (1608-1674). 

Epitaph on Shakespeare. 232 

II Penseroso. 733 

L’Allegro. 731 

Lycidas. 237 

On the Morning of Christ’s Nativity.543 

Song on May Morning. 435 

Sonnets— 

On his being Arrived at the Age of 

Twenty-three . 228 

On his Blindness. 236 

On the Late Massacre in Piedmont.314 

To Cyriac Skinner.. 236 

To the Lady Margaret Ley. 237 

To the Lord General Cromwell. 236 

To the Nightingale. 482 

When the Assault was Intended to the 
City. 314 

MITCHELL, WALTER (1826-). 

Tacking Ship off Shore. 516 

MOIR, DAVID MACBETH (1798-1851). 

CasaWappy. 39 

MONTGOMERY, JAMES (1771-1854). 

“For ever with the Lord”. 617 

“Friend after friend departs”. 658 

Gethsemane. 554 

Make Way for Liberty. 298 

Psalm LXXII. 557 

The Common Lot. 638 

The Stranger and his Friend. 561 

“To Thy temple I repair. 581 

“What are these in bright array”. 618 

What is Prayer?. 583 

MONTROSE, JAMES GRAHAM, MARQUIS 
OF (1612-1650). 

“My dear and only love”. 193 

MOORE, CLARA (JESSUP), (1824-1899). 

The Web of Life. 637 

MOORE, CLEMENT CLARKE (1779-1863). 

The Night before Christmas. 67 

MOORE, EDWARD (1712-1757). 

The Happy Marriage. 2 


Page 


MOORE, THOMAS (1779-1852). 

A Canadian Boat-Song. 733 

A Joke Versified. 778 

“As by the shore at break of day”. 363 

A Speculation. 766 

“Believe me, if all those endearing young 

charms” . 162 

“Come, rest in this bosom”. 147 

“Farewell!—but whenever you welcome the 

hour’. 85 

“Go where glory waits thee”. 95 

Miriam’s Song. 570 

"Oft, in the stilly night”. 77 

“Oh, breathe not his name”. 253 

“She is far from the land”. 274 

Sweet Innisfallen. 535 

“The harp that once through Tara’s halls” .. . 362 

The Lake of the Dismal Swamp. 416 

The Meeting of the Waters. 535 

“Thou art, O God”. 571 

’Tis the Last R ose of Summer. 465 

“To sigh, yet feel no pain”. 182 

MORRIS, GEORGE POPE (1802-1864). 

"Woodman, spare that tree”. 75 

MOSS, THOMAS (1740-1808). 

The Beggar’s Petition. 712 

MOTHERWELL, WILLIAM (1797-1835). 

Jeanie Morrison. 118 

The Covenanters’ Battle-Chant . .. 297 

MOULTRIE, JOHN (1799-1874). 

The Three Sons. 50 

MUHLENBERG, WILLIAM AUGUSTUS 
(1796-1877). 

“I would not live alway”. 613 

“Saviour, who Thy flock art feeding”. 560 

“Shout the glad tidings”. 553 

MUNBY, ARTHUR JOSEPH (1829-). 

Doris. A Pastoral. 201 

NAIRNE, CAROLINA, LADY (1766-1845). 

Castell Gloom. 536 

The Laird o’ Cockpen. 764 

The Land of the Leal. 656 

NASH, THOMAS (1567-1601). 

Spring. 435 

In Time of Pestilence. 612 

NEALE, HANNAH (LLOYD). 

The Neglected Call. 704 

NEALE, JOHN MASON (1818-1866). 

“Art thou weary? ( Translation ). 597 

The Celestial Country ( Translation ). 624 

NEWMAN, JOHN HENRY (1801-1890). 

Lead, Kindly Light. 589 

NEWTON, JOHN (1725-1S07). 

Home in View. 609 

“How sweet the name of Jesus sounds”.561 

Psalm LXXXVII. 618 

NOEL, THOMAS, (1799-1861). 

The Pauper’s Drive. 717 

NORTON, ANDREWS (1786-1853). 

After a Summer Shower. 439 

NORTON, CAROLINE ELIZABETH (1808- 
1877). 

Bingen on the Rhine. 83 

Love Not. 187 






























































































INDEX OF AUTHORS. 


xv 


Page | 


The Arab’s Farewell to his Horse. 496 

The King of Denmark’s R'de. 422 

O’BRIEN, FITZ-JAMES (1828-1862). 

Kane. 275 

The Challenge. 694 

O’CONNOR, MICHAEL (18377-1862). 

Reveille. 356 

O’DALY, CAROL. 

Eileen a Roon. 213 


Page 

PERCY, THOMAS (1728-1811). 

“O Nanny, wilt thou go with me". 161 

The Friar of Orders Gray . 117 

PKRRONET, EDWARD (1721-1792). 

Coronation. 556 

PERRY, NORA (1841-1896). 

The Love-Knot. 217 

PHILIPS, AMBROSE (16757-1749). 

A Fragment from Sappho . 192 

To Miss Charlotte Pulteney. 35 


O’KEEFE, JOHN (1747-1833). 

“A glass is good, and a lass is good”. 764 | 

I am a Friar of the Orders Gray. 780 

OLDYS, WILLIAM (1696-1761). 

“Busy, curious, thirsty fly”. 487 

OLIVERS, THOMAS (1725-1799). 

"Lo! He comes with clouds descending”. 631 

“The God of Abraham praise”. 603 

ONDERDONK, HENRY USTICK (1789-1858). 

“The spirit in our hearts”. 593 

OPIE, AMELIA (1769-1853). 

Forget me Not. 94 

The Orphan Boy’s Tale. 46 

OSGOOD, FRANCES SARGENT (1811-1850). 

“I have something sweet to tell you”. 213 

Little Things. 659 

OSGOOD, KATE PUTNAM (1841-). 

Driving Home the Cows. 399 | 

OSLER, EDWARD (1798-1863). 

Praise . 621 

OXFORD, EDWARD VERE, EARL OF(15347- 
1604). 

A Renunciation. 190 

PALMER, JOHN WILLIAMSON (1825-). 

Stonewall Jackson’s Way. 352 

PALMER, RAY (1808-1887). 

“My faith looks up to Thee”. 558 

PARKER, MARTYN (-16567). 

Ye Gentlemen of England. 507 

PARNELL, THOMAS (1679-1718). 

A Hymn to Contentment. 679 

The Hermit. 686 

PARSONS, THOMAS WILLIAM (1819-1892). 

On a Bust of Dante. 223 

The Groomsman to the Bridesmaid. 183 


J AYNE, JOHN HOWARD (1792-1852). 
Home, Sweet Home. 

PEACOCK, THOMAS LOVE (1785-1866). 
Love and Age. 


The Grave of Love. 126 

PEELE, GEORGE (15527-15977). 

The Aged Man-at-Arms. 749 

PERCIVAL, JAMES GATES (1795-1856). 

Coral Grove. 518 

It is Great for our Country to Die.365 

The Reign of May. 441 

The Seneca Lake. 539 


PIERPONT, JOHN (1785-1866). 

My Child. 48 

Passing Away. 648 

Warren's Address. 328 

PINKNEY, EDWARD COATE (1802-1828). 

A Health. 282 

PIOZZI, HESTER LYNCH THRALE (1741- 
1821). 

The Three Warnings. 639 

PITT, WILLIAM (1749-1823). 

The Sailor’s Consolation. 775 

PLUMPTRE, EDWARD HAYES (1821-1891). 

Dedication to Dante’s Divine Comedy. 281 

The River. 467 

POE, EDGAR ALLAN (1809-1849). 

Annabel Lee. 143 

The Bells. 755 

The Raven. 766 

POPE, ALEXANDER (1688-1744). 

Elegy to the Memory of an Unfortunate 

Lady. 655 

Messiah. A Sacred Eclogue. 547 

Ode on Solitude. 753 

Ode on St. Cecilia’s Day. 725 

Prologue to Mr. Addison’s Tragedy of Cato . . 244 

The Dying Christian to his Soul. 616 

The Universal Prayer. 565 

PRAED, WINTHROP MACK WORTH (1802- 
1839). 

Charade—Campbell. 265 

^School and Schoolfellows. 79 

PRENTICE, GEORGE DENISON (1802-1870). 

Sabbath Evening. 450 

The Closing Year. 95 

To an Absent Wife. 14 

PRENTISS, ELIZABETH PAYSON (1818- 
1878). 

Cradle Song. 32 

PRINGLE, THOMAS (1789-1834). 

“Afar in the desert”. 494 

PRIOR, MATTHEW (1664-1721). 

Epitaph Extempore. 243 

"In vain you tell your parting lover”. 196 

“The merchant to secure his treasure”. 142 

To a Child of Quality Five Years Old. 47 

PROCTER, ADELAIDE ANNE (1825-1864). 

A Doubting Heart. 704 

A Woman’s Answer. 188 

A Woman’s Question. 187 

Evening Hymn. 572 

One by One. 703 

Per Pacem ad Lucem. 558 

The Storm. 515 






















































































XVI 


INDEX OF AUTHORS. 


Page 


PROCTER, BRYAN WALLER (1787-1874). 

A Petition to Time. 749 

Golden-tressfed Adelaide. 39 

Life. 635 

The Blood Horse. 492 

The Poet’s Song to his Wife. 14 

The Sea. 507 

The Stormy Petrel. 474 

QUARLES, FRANCIS (1592-1644). 

Delight in God only. 596 

The Shortness of Life. 635 

The Vanity of the World. 674 

RALEIGH, SIR WALTER (1552-1618). 

An Epitaph upon Sir Philip Sidney. 229 

A Vision upon this Conceit of the Faerie 

Queene. 737 

Lines written the Night before his Execution. 232 

The Lie. 675 

The Milkmaid’s Mother’s Answer. 140 

The Pilgrimage. 598 

The Silent Lover. 467 

RAMSAY, ALLAN (1686-1758). 

"At setting day and rising morn” . 195 

Lochaber no More. 195 

RANDOLPH, THOMAS (1605-1634). 

To my Picture. 753 

RANKIN, JEREMIAH EAMES (1828-). 

The Babie. 41 

READ, THOMAS BUCHANAN (1822-1872). 

Drifting. 519 

Sheridan’s Ride. 351 

The Closing Scene. 660 

The Stranger on the Sill. 75 

RILEY, JAMES W’HITCOMB (1852-). 

When she comes home again. 28 

ROBINSON, ROBERT (1735-1790). 

“Come, Thou Fount of every blessing”.605 

ROCHESTER, JOHN WILMOT, EARL OF 
(1647-1680). 

“My dear mistress has a heart”. 156 

“Too late, alas! I must confess”. 126 

ROGERS, SAMUEL (1763-1855). 

An Italian Song. 502 

A Wish . 6 

Ginevra. 408 

To the Butterfly. 486 

ROSSETTI, CHRISTINA GEORGINA (1830- 
1894). 

Maude'Clare. 188 

Up-Hill. 598 

The Unseen World—At Home. 663 

Weary in Well-doing. 611 

ROWE, NICHOLAS (1674-1718). 

Colin’s Complaint. 194 

RUTTER, EDITH. 

Without him. 686 

RYAN, ABRAM JOSEPH (1839-1886). 

The Conquered Banner. 357 

SANDS, ROBERT CHARLES (1799-1832). 

Good-Night. 638 

SARGENT, EPES (1813-1880). 

A Life on the Ocean Wave. 509 


Page 


SAXE, JOHN GODFREY (1816-1887). 

A Reflective Retrospect. 79 

I’m Growing Old. 749 

SCOLLARD, CLINTON (1860-). 

Song of the Nightingale. 485 

SCOTT, SIR WALTER (1771-1832). 

Allen-a-Dale. 186 

Boat-Song—“Hail to the chief”. 364 

Border Ballad. 358 

Coronach. 645 

County Guy. 189 

Hellvellyn. 532 

Jock of Hazeldean. 134 

Lochinvar. 136 

Paraphrase of Dies Irse. 630 

Pibroch of Donuil Dhu. 359 

Rebecca’s Hymn. 570 

Rosabelle. 405 

The Bonnets of Bonnie Dundee.317 

“The heath this night must be my bhd”. 186 

The Outlaw. 176 

Time..*. 717 

“Where shall the lover rest”. 176 

SEAGRAVE, ROBERT (1693-1755?). 

“Rise, my soul, and stretch thy wings”. 590 

SEARS, EDMUND HAMILTON (1810-1876). 

“It came upon the midnight clear”.552 

SEDLEY, SIR CHARLES (1639-1701). 

"Love still hath something of the sea”. 99 

“Not, Celia, that I juster am”. 127 

To a Very Young Lady. 189 

SEWELL, GEORGE (-1726). 

The Dying Man in his Garden. 657 

SHAKESPEARE, WILLIAM (1564-1616). 

Birds. 444 

“Blow, blow, thou winter wind”.447 

“Come away come away, Death”. 197 

Crabbfed Age and Youth. 754 

Dirge from “Cymbeline”. 657 

Influence of Music. 730 

Morning Song from “Cymbeline”.448 

“On a day—alack the day”. 141 

“Sigh no more, ladies”. 187 

Silvia. 216 

Sonnets— 

Full many a glorious morning have I 

seen”. 448 

“Let me not to the marriage of true 

minds”. 218 

“Like as the waves make toward the peb¬ 
bled shore”. 751 

“No longer mourn for me when I am 

dead”. 219 

“Not marble nor the gilded monuments” 750 
“Oh, how much more doth beauty beau¬ 
teous seem”. 751 

“Poor Soul, the centre of my sinful earth” 751 
“Shall I compare thee to a summer’s 

day?”. 220 

“That time of year thou may’st in me 

behold”. 219 

“They that have power to hurt, and will 

do none’ . 752 

“Tired with all these, for restful death I 
cry”. 219 



































































































\ 


INDEX OF AUTHORS. 


Page 


“To me, fair friend, you never can be 

old’’. 750 

"When I do count the clock that tells the 

time”. 750 

“When in disgrace with fortune and 

men’s eyes”. 219 

“When in the chronicle of wasted time”. 220 
“When to the sessions of sweet silent 

thought”. 751 

Sweet-and-Twenty. 163 

Under the Greenwood Tree. 466 

“When icicles hang by the wall”. 447 

SHELLEY, PERCY BYSSHE (1792-1822). 

Adonais; an Elegy on the Death of John 

Keats.•. 254 

A Lament. 756 

Arethusa. 469 

Autumn; a Dirge. 445 

Lines to an Indian Air. 103 

Love’s Philosophy ...1 . 97 

“Music when soft voices die”. 185 

Ode to the West Wind”. 445 

“One word is too often profaned”. 148 

Ozymandias. 661 

Stanzas written in Dejection near Naples .... 262 

The Cloud. 453 

The Invitation. 503 

The Question. 500 

To a Skylark. 478 

To Night. 451 

To the Moon. 455 

With a Guitar, To Jane. 730 

SHENSTONE, WILLIAM (1714-1763). 

A Pastoral Ballad. 205 

The Schoolmistress. 57 

SHIRLEY, JAMES (1596-1666). 

Death’s Final Conquest. 643 

The Last Conqueror.'.. 643 

SHIRELY, W T ALTER (1725-1786). 

"Lord, dismiss us with Thy blessing”. 632 

SIDNEY, SIR PHILIP (1554-1586). 

A Ditty. 127 

“Because I oft in dark abstracted guise” .... 762 
“Having this day my horse, my hand, my 

lance”. 192 

“O happy Thames, that didst my Stella bear” 191 

On Sleep. 756 

To the Moon. 118 

SIGOURNEY, LYDIA HUNTLEY (1791- 
1865). 

Indian Names. 538 

SILL, EDW T ARD ROWLAND (1841-1887). 

The Fool’s Prayer. 613 

SKELTON, JOHN (14607-1529). 

To Mistress Margaret Hussey. 227 

SMITH, CHARLOTTE (1749-1806). 

On the Departure of the Nightingale. 484 

SMITH, HORACE (1779-1849). 

Address to the Mummy in Belzoni’s Exhibi¬ 
tion . 742 

Hymn to the Flowers. 460 

The Contrast. 341 

SMITH, JAMES (1775-1839). 

Epigram. 769 

b 


xvii 


Page 


SMITH, SAMUEL FRANCIS (1808-1895). 

America. 354 

Missionary Hymn. 581 

SMITH, SYDNEY (1771-1845). 

Parody on Pope. 779 

SMOLLETT, TOBIAS GEORGE (1721-1771). 

Ode to Leven Water. 533 

The Tears of Scotland. 326 

SOUTHEY, CAROLINE BOWLES (1787- 
1854). 

Once upon a Time. 93 

The Pauper’s Death bed. 716 

SOUTHEY, ROBERT (1774-1843). 

God’s Judgment on a Wicked Bishop.411 

“My days among the dead are passed”.735 

The Battle of Blenheim. 697 

The Cataract of Lodore. 526 

The Complaints of the Poor. 709 

The Holly Tree. 467 

The Inchcape Rock. 380 

SPENCER, HIRAM DODD. 

A hundred years to come. 700 


SPENCER, WILLIAM ROBERT (1770-1834). 

Beth Gelert; or, the Grave of the Greyhound. 394 
“When midnight o’er the moonless skies” ... 94 

SPENSER, EDMUND (1552-1598). 


“Like as the culver on the bared bough”. 190 

“Sweet is the rose, but grows upon a brere” .. 756 

“The doubt which ye misdeem, fair love. 101 

SPRAGUE, CHARLES (1791-1875). 

The Family Meeting. 17 

The Winged Worshippers. 452 

STEDMAN, EDMUND CLARENCE (1833-). 

On the Doorstep. 222 

Toujours Amour. 163 

STERLING, JOHN (1806-1844). 

Louis XV.. 327 

STIRLING, WILLIAM ALEXANDER, EARL 
OF (1580-1640). 

ToAurora. 162 

STODDARD, LAVINIA (Stone), (1787-1820). 

The Soul’s Defiance. 685 

STODDARD, RICHARD HENRY (1825-1903). 

Birds.. 695 

“The house is dark and dreary”. 758 

Without and Within. 12 

STODDART, THOMAS TOD (1810-1880). 

The Angler’s Trysting Tree. 473 

STORY, WILLIAM WETMORE (1819-1895). 

Io Victis. 720 

The Vio'et. 462 

STOWE, HARRIET BEECHER (1812-1896). 

The Other World. 663 

STRODE, WILLIAM (1600-1644). 

Kisses. 156 

STRONG, LATHAM CORNELL (1845-1878). 

West Point. 90 

SUCKLING, SIR JOHN (1609-1642). 

“I prithee send me back my heart”. 171 

The Constant Lover. 142 

Why so Pale? .. 104 




















































































INDEX OF AUTHORS. 


xviii 


Page 

SURREY, HENRY HOWARD, EARL OF 


(1518-1547). 

A Praise of his Love. 154 

Description of Spring. 433 

No Age content with his own Estate. 677 

Prisoned in Windsor. 224 

The Means to attain Happy Life. 636 

SWAIN, CHARLES (1803-1874). 

Dryburgh Abbey. 265 

SWINBURNE, ALGERNON CHARLES (1837- 
-)• 

Age and Song. 739 

A Match . 146 

"Before the Beginning of years”. 742 

“When the hounds of spring”. 434 

SYLVESTER, JOSHUA (1563-1618). 

A Contented Mind. 680 

Love’s Omnipresence. 99 

TANNAHILL, ROBERT (1774-1810). 

Jessie, the Flower of Dumblane. 163 

The Braes of Balquhither. 502 

“The midges dance aboon the burn”. 449 

TATE (NAHUM), (1652-1715) and BRADY 
(NICHOLAS), (1659-1726). 

Christmas. 549 

Psalm C. 565 

TAYLOR,'BAYARD (1825-1878). 

Bedouin Song . 177 

The Quaker Widow. 22 

The Song of the Camp. 216 

TAYLOR, JANE (1783-1824). . 

The Squire’s Pew. 691 

TAYLOR, TOM (1817-1880). 

Abraham Lincoln. 278 

TENNYSON, ALFRED LORD (1809-1892). 

“Ask me no more”. 192 

“As thro’the land at eve we went”. 39 

“Break, break, break”. 88 

Bugle Song. 506 

“Come into the garden, Maud”.177 

Crossing the Bar. 582 

Dedication to “Idylls of the King”. 278 

From ‘ ‘In Memoriam”— 

“Again at Christmas did we weave” .... 719 
“Her eyes are homes of silent prayer” .. . 719 
“I held it truth, with him who sings” ... 719 
“Oh yet we trust that somehow good” . . 719 
“Ring out, wild bells, to the wild sky” .. 720 
“Strong Son of God, immortal Love” .. . 720 

“Home they brought her warrior dead”. 56 

Lady Clara Vere de Vere. 210 

Lady Clare. 138 

Lilian. 203 

Locksley Hall. 149 

Ode on the Death of the Duke of Wellington . 271 

Song of the Brook . 469 

St. Agnes'Eve. 566 

“Sweet and low’. 31 

The Charge of the Light Brigade. 348 

The Days that are no More. 85 

The Death of the Old Year. 447 

The May Queen .. 69 

The Miller’s Daughter. 155 

“Thy voice is heard through rolling drums”. . 741 
Ulysses ,,,,,,,. 289 


Page 


THACKERAY, WILLIAM MAKEPEACE 
(1811-1863). 

At the Church Gate. 211 

Sorrows of Wert her. 775 

The Age of Wisdom. 87 

The Ballad of Bouillabaisse. 89 

The Chronicle of the Drum. 333 

The End of the Play. 693 

THOM, WILLIAM (17987-1848). . 

The Mitherless Bairn. 46 

THOMSON, JAMES (1700-1748). 

Hymn of the Seasons. 431 

Rule, Britannia. 355 

THORNBURY, GEORGE WALTER (1828- 
1876). 

LaTricoteuse. 331 

The Jester’s Sermon. 780 

The Pompadour. 326 

The Three Troopers. 310 

THORPE, ROSE HARTWICK (1850-). 

Curfew must not Ring to-night. 406 

THRUPP, DOROTHY ANNE (1779-1847). 

“I am the Good Shepherd” . 597 

THURLOW, EDWARD HOVELL, LORD 
(1781-1829). 

Song to May. 436 

Summer. 442 

To a Bird that Haunted the Waters of Laaken 476 
To the Moon. 455 

TICKELL, THOMAS (1686-1740). 

Colin and Lucy. 197 

On the Death of Mr. Addison. 244 

TIGHE, MARY (1772-1810). 

Written at Killarney, July 29,1800 . 536 

TIMROD, HENRY (1829-1867). . 

Spring. 440 

TODHUNTER, JOHN (1839-). 

The First Spring Day. 439 

TOPLADY, AUGUSTUS MONTAGUE (1740- 
1778). 

Rock of Ages. 560 

TRENCH, RICHARD CHENEVIX (1807- 
1886). 

Harmosan. 291 

“Some murmur, when their sky is clear” .... 678 

The Kingdom of God. 682 

TROWBRIDGE, JOHN TOWNSEND (1827- 
-)• 

At Sea. 519 

Midsummer. 443 

The Vagabonds. 712 

TURNER, CHARLES TENNYSON (1808- 
1879). 

The Lachrymatory. 738 

TYCHBORN, CHIDIOCK (-1586). 

Lines Written by One in the Tower. 718 

VAUGHAN. HENRY (1622-1695). 

Son-Dayes. 580 

They are all Gone. 617 

VAUX, THOMAS, LORD (1510-1556). 

On a Contented Mind. 678 

VENABLE, WILLIAM HENRY (1836-). 

Teacher’s Dream. 91 

























































































INDEX OF AUTHORS. 


xix 


Page 

WAKEFIELD. NANCY AMELIA WOOD¬ 
BURY PRIEST (1836-1870). 

Over the River. 649 

WALLER, EDMUND (1605-1687). 

“Go, lovely rose”. 185 

On a Girdle. 185 

On his Divine Poems. 718 

On the Statue of King Charles I. 270 

WALTON, IZAAK (1593-1683). 

The Angler’s Wish. 471 

WARING, ANNA L^ETITIA (1820-). 

Thy Will be Done. 587 

WARTON, THOMAS (1687-1745). 

Sonnet—Written after Seeing Windsor Castle 522 

WARTON, THOMAS (1728-1790). 

On Revisiting the River Loddon. 526 

On a Blank Leaf of Dugdale's Monasticon . . . 747 

WASTELL, SIMON (15607-1630?). 

Man’s Mortality. 646 

WATSON, JOHN WHITAKER (1824-1890). 

Beautiful Snow. 715 

WATSON, THOMAS (1557-1592). 

May. 436 

“Time wasteth years, and months, and hours” 172 

WATSON, WILLIAM (1858-). 

First Skylark of Spring. 457 

WATTS, ISAAC (1674-1748). 

“Come, Holy Spirit, heavenly Dove”. 562 

Cradle Hymn. 34 

Glorying in the Cross. 567 

"I give immortal praise”. 566 

“O happy soul that lives on high”. 595 

Psalm LXXII. 609 

Psalm XC. 610 

Psalm XCVIII. 610 

Psalm C. 566 

Psalm CXVII. 572 

Psalm CXXI. 603 

“There is a land of pure delight”. 616 

WAUGH, EDWIN (1817-1890). 

“The dule’s i’ this bonnet o’ mine”. 166 

WEBSTER, JOHN (15807-16257). 

Dirge from “The White Devil”. 658 

WELBY, AMELIA B. COPPUCK (1819-1852). 
Twilight at Sea. A Fragment. 515 

WESLEY, CHARLES (1707-1788). 

“Hark, how all the welkin rings”. 552 

“Jesu, My strength, my hope” . 599 

“Jesus, lover of my soul”. 560 

The Lord is Risen. 555 

Wrestling Jacob. 591 

WESTWOOD, THOMAS (1814-1888). 

Little Bell. 38 

WHITE, HENRY KIRKE (1785-1806). 

Hymn for Family Worship. 588 

The Star of Bethlehem . 597 

To an Early Primrose. 461 

WHITE, JOSEPH BLANCO (1775-1841). 

To Night. 450 

WHITMAN, WALTER (1819-1892). 

“O Captain! My Captain!”. 223 


Page 

WHITTIER, JOHN GREENLEAF (1807- 
1892). 

At Last. 618 

Barbara Frietchie. 350 

Brown of Ossawatomie. 277 

Ichabod. 268 

In School-Days... 47 

Maud Muller. 167 

My Playmate. 82 

My Psalm..'. 633 

Randolph of Roanoke. 263 

Skipper Ireson’s Ride. 373 

The Angels of Buena Vista. 344 

The Eve of Election. 695 

The Red River Voyageur. 757 

WILDE, RICHARD HENRY (1789-1847). 

“My life is like the summer rose”..636 

To the Mocking Bird. 479 

WILLIAMS, HELEN MARIA (1762-1827). 

To Hope. 683 

“Whilst Thee I seek”. 592 

WILLIAMS, WILLIAM (1717-1791). 

“Guide me, O Thou great Jehovah”. 593 

WILLIS, NATHANIEL PARKER (1806-1867). 

Saturday Afternoon. 77 

WILSON, ALEXANDER (1766-1813). 

The Blue Bird. 479 

WILSON, JOHN (1785-1854). 

The Evening Cloud. 451 

WINCHELSEA, ANNE FINCH, COUNTESS 
OF (16607-1721). 

A Nocturnal Reverie. 443 

WINTER, WILLIAM (1836-). 

Fidele. 276 

WITHER, GEORGE (1588-1667). 

A Rocking Hymn. 34 

A Stolen Kiss. 159 

At Sunsetting. 576 

. Lemuel’s Song. 24 

Psalm CXLVIII. 571 

The Shepherd’s Resolution. 169 

The Steadfast Shepherd. 153 

WOLFE, CHARLES (1791-1823). 

“If I had thought thou couldst have died”... 708 
The Burial of Sir John Moore at Corunna. .. . 253 

WOODWORTH, SAMUEL (1785-1842). 

The Old Oaken Bucket. 74 

WORDSWORTH, WILLIAM (1770-1850). 

Daffodils. 461 

Elegiac Stanzas suggested by a Picture of 

Peele Castle. 523 

Hart-Leap Well. 389 

Intimations of Immortality from Recollec¬ 
tions of Early Childhood. 664 

“It is a beauteous evening calm and free”.... 450 

lines Written in Ea-ly Spring. 439 

Lines Composed a Few Miles above Tintern 

Abbey. 540 

Lucy Gray; or, Solitude. 56 

Ode to Duty. 534 

On the Extinction of the Venetian Republic.. 347 

She Dwelt among the Untrodden Ways. 49 

“She was a Phantom of delight”. •••• 10 

Song at the Feast of Brougham Castle.225 



























































































INDEX OF THE NAMES OF THE POEMS. 


xxii 


Page 

“Blame not my Lute”. Wyatt. 190 

Blenheim, The Battle of. Southey. 697 

“Blest be thy love, dear Lord”. Austin. 668 

Blind Boy, The. Cibber. 67 

Blindness, On his . Milton. 236 

Blossoms, To. Herrick. 466 

* ‘Blow, blow, thou winter wind ”,.. .Shakespeare. 447 

Blue-Bird, The . Wilson. 479 

Boadicea, An Ode. Cowper. 367 

Boatie Rows, The. Ewen. 516 

Boat Song . Scott. 3G4 

Bonnets of Bonnie Dundee, The. Scott. 317 

Bonnie Lesley. Burns. 145 

Bonnie Prince Charlie. Hogg. 325 

Border Ballad . Scott. 358 

Bouillabaisse, The Ballad of. Thackeray. 89 

“Bound upon th’accursfed tree”. Milman. 555 

Boyhood . Allston. 53 

Boys, The. Holmes. 80 

Braes o’ Balquhither. Tannahill. 502 

Braes of Yarrow, The. Hamilton. 384 

Braes of Yarrow, The. Logan. 386 

“Break, break, break”. Tennyson. 88 

Bridal of Andalla, The. Lockhart. 209 

Bridal Song. Beaumont and Fletcher. 97 

Bridal Song. Milman. 220 

Bridge of Sighs, The. Hood. 714 

Brook, Song of the. Tennyson. 469 

Brookside, The. Houghton. 169 

Brown of Ossawatomie. Whittier. 277 

Bugle Song . Tennyson. 506 

Bull-Fight of Gazul, The. Lockhart. 410 

Burial Hymn. Milman. 615 

Burial March of Dundee. Ayloun. 318 

Burial of Moses, The. Alexander. 600 

Burial of Sir John Moore,. Wolfe. 253 

Burial of the Dane. Brownell. 650 

Burns . Halleck. 251 

“Busy, curious, thirsty fly”. Oldys. 487 

Butterfly, To the. Rogers. 486 

Call, The. Darley. 178 

Canadian Boat-Song, A. Moore. 733 

Cardamon. Beers. 406 

Carmen Bellicosum. McMaster. 330 

Casabianca. Hemans. 344 

Casa Wappy. Moir. 39 

Castara . Habington. 179 

Castell Gloom . Nairne. 536 

Castles in the Air. Ballantyne. 37 

Cataract of Lodore, The. Southey. 526 

Celestial Country, The. Bernard of Cluny. 624 

Celia, To. Jonson. 195 

Challenge, The. O'Brien. 694 

Chambered Nautilus, The. Holmes. 474 

Chameleon, The. Merrick. 706 

Changed Cross, The. Hobart. 610 

Character of a Happy Life. Wotton. 681 

Charade—Camp-bell. Praed. 265 

Charge of the Light Brigade . Tennyson. 348 

Charity Children at St. Paul’s, The. Blake. 43 

Charles I., On the Statue of. Waller. 270 

Charlie is my Darling. Hogg. 324 

Chaucer, Inscription for a Statue of... .Akenside. 227 j 

Cherry-Ripe. Herrick. 214 ■ 

Chess-Board, The. I.yllon. 85 

Chevy-Cliace, The Ballad of. Unknown. 300 

Child embracing his Mother, To a. Hood. 35 j 


Page 

Child Musician, The. Dobson. 44 

Child of Elle, The. Unknown. 387 

Child of Quality, To a.. Prior. 47 

Children . Landor. 36 

Children in the Wood, The. Unknown. 53 

“Children of the Heavenly King”. Cennick. 594 

Children, The. Dickinson. 62 

Children’s Hour, The . Longfellow. 45 

Christian Charity. Coates. 697 

Christ Crucified. Milman. 554 

Christmas. Tale and Brady. 549 

Christmas Carol. Unknown. 551 

Christmas Carol. Byrom. 551 

Christmas Carol . Coxe. 550 

Christmas Carol, A. Craik. 553 

Christmas Hymn, A. Domett. 549 

Christ Risen. Barbauld. 556 

Christ's Nativity, On the Morning of... .Milton. 543 

Chronicle, The. Cowley. 221 

Chronicle of the Drum, The. Thackeray. 333 

Clay, Henry, On the Defeat of. Lord. 270 

j Closing Scene, The. Read. 660 

| Closing Year, The. Prentice. 95 

Cloud, The. Shelley. 453 

Clown’s Baby, The. Janvier. 52 

Colin and Lucy. Tickell. 197 

Colin’s Complaint. Rowe. 194 

Cologne. Coleridge 771 

Come and Welcome to Jesus Christ. Hart. 569 

‘ ‘Come away, come away, Death”. .Shakespeare. 197 

‘ ‘Come Holy Spirit, Heavenly Dove”. Watts. 562 

‘ ‘Come into the garden, Maud”. Tennyson. 177 

“Come, rest in this bosom”. Moore. 147 

“Come, Thou Fount of every blessing,” Robinson. 605 

“Come unto Me”. Bonar. 620 

"Come ye lofty, come ye lowly”. Gurney. 550 

Cornin’through the Rye. Unknown. 214 

Common Lot, The. Montgomery. 638 

Complaints of the Poor, The. Southey. 709 

Concord Hymn. Emerson. 367 

Confirmation Hymn. Doddridge. 585 

| Conquered Banner, The. Ryan. 357 

Constancy . Suckling. 142 

Content . Greene. 680 

Content. A Pastoral. Cunningham. 747 

Content, Careless. Byrom. 680 

Contented Mind, A. Sylvester. 680 

Contented Mind, On a. Vaux 678 

Contentment, Hymn to. Parnell. 679 

Contrast, The. Smith. 341 

Coral Grove, The. Percival. 518 

Corbet, Vincent, To. Corbet. 235 

Corinna’s Going a-Maying. Herrick. 436 

Coronach. Scott. 645 

Coronation . Jackson. 760 

Coronation . Perronet. 556 

Cotter’s Saturday Night, The. Bums. 3 

County Guy. Scott. 189 

Courtin’, The . Lowell. 763 

Court Lady, A. Browning. 361 

Covenanter’s Battle Chant. Motherwell. 297 

Cowper’s Grave . Browning. 248 

Crabbed Age and Youth. Shakespeare. 754 

Cradle Hymn. Walls. 34 

Cradle Song. Prentiss. 32 

Crescentius. Maclean. 293 

Cromwell, To the Lord General. Milton. 236 

Crossing the Bar. Tennyson. 582 








































































































































INDEX OF THE NAMES OF THE POEMS. 


xxm 


Page 

Crowded Street, The . Bryant. 667 

Cruel Sister, The. Unknown. 420 

Cry of the Children, The. Browning. 63 

Cuckoo, To the. Logan. 485 

Cuckoo, To the. Wordsworth. 484 

Cumberland, The . Unknown. 350 

Cumberland, To the Lady Margaret, Countess of 

Daniel 232 

Cuinnor Hall . Mickle. 381 

Cupid and Campaspe . Lyly. 99 

Curfew must Not King To-Night. Thorpe. 406 

Cynthia, To. Jonson. 455 

Daffodils . Wordsworth .,461 

Daffodils, To. Herrick. 462 

Daisy, To the. Wordsworth. 462 

Daisy, To the. Wordsworth. 463 

Dante, On a Bust of. Parsons 223 

* ‘Day, in melting purple dying”. Brooks. 170 

Day is Done, The. Longfellow. 759 

Days That Are No More, The. Tennyson. 85 

Dead Woman, To a. Banner. 142 \ 

Death-bed, A . Aldrich. 645 I 

Death-bed, The . Thomas Hood. 645 

Death of a Friend, Stanzas on the. Heber. 614 

Death of Sir Albertus Morton’s Wife. . . . Wotton. 230 

Death of the Flowers, The. Bryant. 465 

Death of the Old Year, The. Tennyson. 447 

Death of the Virtuous, The. Barbauld. 638 

Death’s Final Conquest. Shirley. 643 

Dedication to Idylls of the King. Tennyson. 278 

Delight in Disorder. Herrick. 738 

Delight in God Only. Quarles. 596 

Destruction of Sennacherib, The. Byron. 283 

Dianeme, To. Herrick 210 

Diaphenia. Constable. 179 

Dickens in Camp . Bert Harte. 280 

Dies Irse. Thomas de Celano. 629 

Dies Irse. Dix. 631 

Dies Irse. Irons. 630 

Dies Ira; . Scott. 630 

Different Minds . Trench. 678 

Dirge, A . Hemans. 708 

Dirge . Beddoes. 178 

Dirge . Eastman. 658 

Dirge of Alaric the Visigoth. Everett. 292 

Dirge for a Soldier. Boker. 277 

Dirge from “The White Devil”. Webster. 658 

Dirge from “Cymbeline”. Shakespeare. 657 

Dirge, in Cymbeline. Collins. 657 

Disdain Returned. .. .Carew. 180 

Ditty, A. Sidney. 127 

Doncaster St. Leger, The. Doyle. 413 

Doorstep, On the ... Stedman. 222 

‘ ‘Dorinda’s sparkling wit and eyes”. Dorset. 127 

Doris. Mundy. 201 

Doubting Heart, A. Procter. 704 

Dowie Dens of Yarrow, The. Unknown. 383 

Drake, Epigram on Sir Francis. Jonson. 227 

Drake, Joseph Rodman, On. Halleck. 254 

Dream of Eugene Aram, The. Hood. 377 

Dr. Hill’s Farces, On. Garrick. 765 

Drifting . Read. 519 

Drinking. Cowley. 455 

Driving Home the Cows. Osgood. 399 

“Drop, drop, slow tears”. Fletcher. 564 

Dryburgh Abbey . Swain. 265 

Duchess May, Rhyme of the. Browning. 423 


Page 

Dumb Child, The. Unknown. 4 1 

Dum Vivimus Vivamus. Doddridge. 594 

Duncan Gray. Burns. 144 

Duty, Ode to. Wordsworth. 684 

Dying Christian to his Soul. The. Pope. 616 

Dying Man in his Garden, The. Sewell. 657 

Earl Meutotjn's Song. Browning. 144 

Early Piety . Heber. 595 

Echo and Silence. Brydges. 506 

Edinburgh after Flodden. Aytoun. 303 

“Edward, Edward”. Unknown. 382 

Eileen a Roon. O'Daly. 213 

Elegy on the Death of a Mad Dog. . .Goldsmith. 771 
Elegy to the Memory of an Unfortunate Lady 

Pope. 655 

Elegy in a Country Churchyard. Gray. 650 

Elizabeth L. H., Epitaph on. Jonson. 235 

Elixir, The. Herbert. 564 

Emigrants in the Bermudas, The. Marvell. 521 

End of the Play, The. Thackeray. 693 

Endurance . Allen. 637 

Epigram . Smith. 769 

Epigram on a Bad Singer. Coleridge. 768 

Epigram on Two Monopolists. Byrom. 765 

Epiphany . Dix. 621 

Epiphany . Heber. 554 

Epitaph Extempore. Prior. 243 

Epitaph on a Living Author. Cowley. 228 

Epitaph on an Infant. Coleridge. 708 

Epitaph upon Husband and Wife . . . .Crashaw. 655 

Epithalamium . Brainard. 220 

Eton College, On a Distant Prospect of, . . .Gray. 522 

Eva, To . Emerson. 216 

Evelyn Hope . Browning. 196 

Evening . Wordsworth. 450 

Evening, To. .Collins. 449 

Evening Cloud, The. Wilson. 451 

Evening Contemplation. Doane 572 

Evening Hymn . Ken. 575 

Evening Hymn . Procter. 572 

Evening Hymn . Keble. 574 

Evening Hymn . Faber. 576 

Evening Hymn . Broivne. 576 

Evening Hymn of the Alpine Shepherds, Beattie. 572 

Evening Star, To the. Leyden. 456 

Evening Star, To the . Campbell. 456 

Eve. of Election, The . Whittier. 695 

Eve of St. Agnes, The. t.Keats. 127 

Excelsior . Longfellow. 758 

Execution of Montrose, The. Aytoun. 314 

Exile of Erin, The . Campbell. 359 

Exile’s Song, The. Gilfillan. 362 

Exile to his Wife, The. Brenan. 11 

Fair Annie of Lochroyan. Unknown. 396 

Fair Helen . Unknown. 404 

Faith . Kemble. 699 

Faithless Nelly Gray .. Hood. 776 

Faithless Sally Brown. Hood. 777 

Family Meeting, The. Sprague. 17 

Fancy. Keats. 504 

Fancy in Nubibus. Coleridge. 455 

Fare Thee Well! and if Forever. Byron. 15 

Farewell, A. Kingsley. 48 


‘ ‘Farewell! but whenever you welcome the hour” 

Moore. 85 































































































































XXVI 


INDEX OF THE NAMES OF THE POEMS. 


Page 

Life . Unknown. 662 

Life on the Ocean Wave, A. Sargent. 509 

Light... Bourdillon. 146 

Light Shining out of Darkness. Cowper. 563 


“Like as the culver, on the bared bough,” 

Spenser. 190 

Lilian . Tennyson. 203 


Lincoln, Abraham . Taylor. 278 

Lines to an Indian Air. Shelley. 103 

Lines Written in Richmond Churchyard, York¬ 
shire . Knowles. 653 I 

Lines Written in the Tower . ,. Tychborn. 718 

Lines Written the Night before his Execution, 

Raleigh. 232 

Litany . Grant. 559 

Litany to the Holy Spirit. Herrick. 612 

Little Beach-Bird, The. Dana. 475 

Little Bell . Westwood. 38 

Little Black Boy, The. Blake. 37 

Ijttle Boy Blue. Field. 72 

Little Things . Osgood. 659 

Living Lost, The. Bryant. 702 

Lochaber no More. Ramsay. 195 

Lochiel’s Warning . Campbell. 322 

Lochinvar . Scott. 136 

Locksley Hall . Tennyson. 149 

Loddon, On Revisiting the River. Warton. 526 

Logan Braes. Mayne. 179 | 

Lo! He comes, with clouds descending. .Olivers. 631 

“Long did I toil”. I.yte. 589 j 

“Look out, bright eyes”. .Beaumont &■ Fletcher. 184 | 

“Lord, dismiss us with Thy blessing”. .Shirley. 632 

Lord is Risen, The . Wesley. 555 

Lord Lovel. Unknown. 198 i 

“Lord, with glowing heart I'd praise Thee,” Key. 568 

Lord Ullin’s Daughter . Campbell. 383 

Lost Leader, The . Browning. 264 

Lot of Thousands, The. Hunter. 705 

Louis XV. Sterling. 327 J 

Losses . Browne. 700 

Love .*.. Coleridge. 100 

Love and Age. Peacock. 214 

Love and Death . Ford. 203 

“Love is a Sickness”. Daniel. 98 

“Love in her sunny eyes does basking play,” 

Cowley. 142 

Love-Knot, The. Perry. 217 

Loveliness of Love, The . Darley 139 

Lovely Lass of Inverness.Burns. 699 

Lovely Mary Donnelly. Allingham. 142 

Love Not. ( . Norton. 187 

“Love not me for comely grace ”. Unknown. 139 

Love’s Omnipresence . Sylvester. 99 

Love’s Philosophy . Shelley. 97 

“Love stlil hath something of the sea,”. .Sedley. 99 

“Lovest thou Me?”. Cowper. 561 

Love will Find out the Way. Unknown. 97 

Low-backed Car, The . Lover. 165 

Loyalty Confined . L'Estrange. 243 I 


Lucasta, To. (On Going beyond the Seas.). 

Lovelace. 125 

Lucasta, To. (On Oping to the Wars.), 

Lovelace. 124 

Lucy Gray; or. Solitude. Wordsworth. 56 

Lullaby . Dcklccr. 32 

Lute, To his. Drummond. 732 

Lycidas . Milton. 237 


Page 

Maidenhood . Longfellow. 66 

Maiden’s Choice, The . Carey. 210 

Maid of Athens. Byron. 145 

Maid’s Lament, The. Landor. 141 

Make Way for Liberty . Montgomery. 298 

Man . Coates. 694 

Man’s Mortality . Wastell. 646 

Marching Along . Browning. 311 

Marco Bozzaris . Halleck. 346 

Mariner’s Dream, The. Dimond. 510 

Mariner’s Wife, The . Adam. 1(T 

Marion’s Men; Song of. Bryant. 330 

Markham, Isabella, Lines on. Harrington. 124 

Mary, To . Bishop. 10 

Mary, To . Cowper. 247 

Mary in Heaven, To. Burns. 137 

Mary MacNeil. Conolly. 201 

Mary Morison. Burns. 147 

Mary of Castle Cary. Macneill. 164 

Massacre in Piedmont, On the Late. Milton. 314 

Match, A . Swinburne. 146 

Matrimonial Happiness . Lapraik. 7 

Maude Clare . Rosetti. 188 

Maud Muller. Whittier. 167 

May. Watson. 436 

May, Song to. Darwin. 440 

May, Song to. Thurlov . 436 

May, The Reign of. Percival. 441 

May Morning, Song on. Milton. 435 

May Queen, The. Tennyson. 69 

Means to Attain Happy Life, The. Surrey. 636 

Meeting of the Waters, The . Moore. 535 

Melancholia . Beaumont <fc Fletcher. 676 

Men of England . Campbell. 356 

Men of Old, The . Houghton. 745 

Mermaid Tavern, Lines on . Keats. 522 

Messiah. Pope. 547 

Midnight Hymn. Ken. 577 

Midsummer . Trowbridge. 443 

Milk-Maid’s Mother’s Answer . Raleigh. 140 

Milk-Maid’s Song . Marlowe. 140 

Miller’s Daughter, The. Tennyson. 155 

Milton, Lines written under the Picture of, 

Dry den. 242 

Milton, To. Wordsworth. 242 

Milton’s Prayer of Patience. Howell. 237 

Minstrel's Song, The . Chatterton. 147 

Missionary Hymn . Heber. 600 

Missionary Hymn . Smith. 581 

Mistletoe Bough, The. Bayly. 412 

Mitherless Bairn, The. Thom. 46 

Mocking Bird, To the. Wilde. 479 

Monterey . Hoffman. 347 

Moon, To the. Shelley. 455 

Moon, To the. Sidney. 118 

Moon, To the. Thurlow. 455 

Morning . Shakespeare. 448 

Morning-Glory, The. Lowell. 49 

Morning. Keble. 573 

Morning Hymn. Ken. 573 

Morning Song. Baillie. 503 

Mother and Poet. Browning. 26 

Mountain Daisy, To a. Burns. 463 

Mouse, To a. Burns. 487 

Muses, To the . Blake. 752 

Musical Instrument, A. Browning. 721 

Music, to Becalm his Fever, To. Herrick. 752 

































































































































INDEX OF THE NAMES OF THE POEMS, 


XXVL. 


p 

“Music, when soft voices die”. Shelley. 

My Ain fireside . Hamilton. 

My Bird. Judson. 

My Child . Pierpont. 

“My days among the dead are passed,” .Southey. 

My Dear anil Only I.ove . Graham. 

“My dear mistress has a heart”. Rochester. 

“My faith looks up to Thee”. Palmer. 

“My heart’s in the Highlands”. Burns. 

“My life is like the summer rose”. Wilde. 

My Love . Lowell. 

“My minde to me a kingdom is”. Dyer. 

My Old Kentucky Home . Foster. 

My Mother's Picture, On the Receipt of ,.Cowper. 

My Only Jo and Dearie, O. Gall. 

My Playmate. Whittier. 

My Psalm . Whittier. 

Myself, Of. Cowley. 

“My silks and fine array”. Blake. 

Nabob, The. Blamire. 

Name in the Band, A . Gould. 

Napoleon . Lockhart. 

Napoleon’s Midnight Review. Von Zeidlitz. 

N aseby. Macaulay. 

Nearer Home . Cary. 

“Nearer, my God, to Thee”. Adams. 

Neglected Call, The . Neale. 

New Jerusalem, The. Unknown. 

Niagara . Brainard. 

Nice Correspondent., A . Locker. 

Night before Christmas, The. Moore. 

Nightingale, On the Departure of the. .Smith. 

Nightingale, Song of the . Scollard. 

Nightingale, The . Barnefield. 

Nightingale, To a . Keats. 

Nightingale, To a. Drummond. 

Nightingale, To the . Drummond. 

Nightingale, To the. Milton. 

Night Piece, The . Herrick. 

Night, To . Shelley. 

Night, To . White. 

Nile, The . IIunt. 

Ninety and Nine, The. Clephane. 

No Age Content with his own Estate. . . .Surrey. 

Nocturnal Reverie, A . Winchelsea. 

“Not, Celia, that I juster am”. Sedley. 

Nothing but Leaves . Akerman. 

Not Ours the Vows. Barton. 

No Trust in Time. Drummond. 

November . Coleridge. 

Now and Afterwards. Craik. 

Nun, The . Hunt. 

Nut-Brown Maid, The. Unknown. 

Nymph Complaining for the Death of her Fawn, 

The. M arvell. 

O Captain! My Captain. Whitman. 

Ode in Imitation of Alcarus. Jones. 

Ode to Himself. Jorison. 

“Of such is the Kingdom of Heaven”. . . .Luke. 

“Oft, in the stilly night”. Moore. 

“O happy soul, that lives on high”. Watts. 

“Oh, breathe not his name”. Moore. 

“Oh how kindly hast Thou led me,". .Grinfield. 

Oh! snatched away in beauty’s bloom. . .Byron. 

“Oh, talk not to me”. Byron. 

“Oh! the pleasant days of old”. Brown. 


Page 

‘Oh welcome, bat and owlet gray”. Baillie. 485 

Oh why should the Spirit of Mortal be Proud? 

Knox. 647 

Old and Young Courtier, The. Unknown. 692 

Old Arm-Chair, The. Cook. 73 

Old Cavalier, The. Doyle. 311 

Old Clock on the Stairs, The. Longfellow. 70 

Old Familiar Faces, The. Lamb. 77 

Old Folks at Home. .Foster. 18 

Old Grimes . / . Greene. 768 

Old Ironsides. Holmes. 366 

Old Letters . Locker. 88 

Old Oaken Bucket, The. Woodworth. 74 

“O little town of Bethlehem”. Brooks. 574 

“O may 1 join the choir invisible”. Cross. 616 

“On a day, alack, the day”. Shakespeare. 141 

On an infant dying as soon as born. Lamb. 55 

“O Nanny, wilt thou go with me”. Percy. 161 

Once upon a Time. Southey. 93 

One by One . Procter. 703 

One Gray Hair, The. Landor. 749 

“One word is too often profaned”. Shelley. 148 

On First Looking into Chapman’s Homer,. Keats. 737 
On his Being Arrived to the Age of Twenty- 

Three . Milton. 228 

On the Shores of Tennessee. Beers. 367 

On this Day I Complete my Thirty-Sixth Year 

Byron. 88 

Orphan Boy’s Tale, The. Opie. 46 

Other World, The. Stowe. 663 

“O Thou, from whom all goodness flows,” 

Haweis. 604 

‘ ‘O Thou, the contrite sinner's friend”.. .Elliott. 559 

Outlaw, The . Scott. 176 

Over the River. Wakefield. 649 

“O Word of God incarnate”. How. 605 

Ozymandias. Hunt. 661 

Palinode. Lowell. 217 

Pan, To . Beaumont ifc Fletcher. 433 

Panglory’s Wooing Song. Fletcher. 98 

Parable from Liebig, A. Kingsley. 582 

Parody on Pope. Smith. 779 

Passing Away. Pierpont. 648 

Passions, The. Collins. 728 

Pastoral, A . Breton. 182 

Pastoral, A. Byrom. 173 

Pastoral Ballad, A . Shenstone. 205 

Pastor’s Reverie, The. Gladden. 92 

Paul Revere’s Ride . Longfellow. 328 

Pauper's Death-Bed, The. Southey. 716 

Pauper’s Drive, The. Noel. 717 

Pavy, Epitaph on Salathiel. Jonson. 234 

Peele Castle, Elegiac Stanzas on. . . . Wordsworth. 523 

Pembroke, Epitaph on Countess of. Jonson. 235 

Per Pacem ad Lucem. Procter. 558 

Petition to Time, A . Procter. 749 

Pet Lamb, The. Wordsworth. 491 

Philip, my King. Craik. 30 

Phillida and Corydon. Breton. 145 

Philomela .. Arnold. 476 

Pibroch of Donuil Dhu. Scott. 359 

Picture, A . Eastman. 6 

Picture of T. C., in a Prospect of Flowers, 

Marvell. 242 

Picture, To my..-. Randolph. 753 

“Pilgrim burdened with thy sin”. Crabbe. 584 

Pilgrimage, The . Raleigh. 598 


'age 

185 

1 

29 

48 

735 

193 

156 

558 

358 

636 

208 

735 

24 

15 

203 

82 

633 

235 

190 

93 

678 

269 

269 

312 

607 

584 

704 

622 

538 

202 

67 

484 

485 

484 

482 

481 

482 

482 

127 

451 

450 

535 

601 

677 

443 

127 

598 

101 

754 

468 

640 

171 

112 

505 

223 

363 

227 

588 

77 

595 

253 

590 

741 

157 

745 

























































































































XXV1U 


INDEX OF THE NAMES OF THE POEMS. 


Page 

Pilot, The. Bayly. 607 

Place to Die, The. Barry. 700 

Poems, On his Divine.. Waller. 718 

Poet’s Bridal-Day Song, The. Cunningham. 18 

Poet’s Epitaph, A. Elliott. 698 

Poet’s Song to his Wife, The. Procter. 14 

Pompadour, The. Thornbury. 326 

Poor Jack. Dibdin. 512 

Poplar Field, The. Cowper. 451 

Portrait, The . Lytton. 199 

Power of Love, The. Beaumont & Fletcher. 169 

Praise . Osier. 621 

Praise for the Fountain opened. Cowper. 620 

Praise of his Love, A. Surrey. 154 

Praise to God . Barbauld. 568 

Prayer Book, On a. Crashaw. 606 

Primrose, The. Herrick. 214 

Primrose, To an Early. White. 461 

Primroses Filled with Morning Dew. . . .Herrick. 461 

Prince Henry, To. James I. 702 

Prisoned in Windsor, he Recounteth his Pleasure 

there Passed. Surrey. 224 

Prisoner of Chillon, The. Byron. 400 

Problem, The. Emerson. 683 

Progress of Poesy, The. Gray. 726 

Prologue to Mr. Addison’s ‘ ‘Cato ”. Pope. 244 

Psalm of Life, A. Longfellow. 635 

Psalm XXIII., Paraphrase of. Addison. 581 

Psalm LXXII . Montgomery. 557 

Psalm LXXII . Watts. 609 

Psalm LXXXIV . Lyte. 620 

Psalm LXXXVII. Newton. 618 

Psalm XC. Watts. 610 

Psalm XCVIII. Watts. 610 

Psalm C. Kethe. 621 

Psalm C. Tate & Brady. 565 

Psalm C. Watts & Wesley. 566 

Psalm CXVII. Watts. 572 

Psalm CXXI . Watts. 603 

Psalm CXLVIII. Wither. 571 

Pulley, The . Herbert. 682 

Pulteney, Miss Charlotte, To. Phillips. 85 


Qua Cursum Ventus . Clough. 742 

Quaker Widow, The. Taylor. 22 

Queen of Bohemia, To the. Wotton. 185 

Question, The. Shelley. 500 

Rainbow, The. Wordsworth. 453 

Rainbow, To the. Campbell. 453 

Randolph of Roanoke . Whittier. 263 

Raven, The . Poe. 766 

Rebecca’s Hymn. Scott. 570 

Recessional . Kipling. 720 

Re-cured Lover, The. Wyatt. 191 

Redbreast, To the. Bampfylde. 481 

Red, Red Rose, A. Burns. 157 

Red River Voyageur, The. Whittier. 757 

Reflective Retrospect, A. Saxe. 79 

Relief of Lucknow, The . Lowell. 347 

Renunciation, A . Oxford. 190 

Resignation . Baxter. 586 

Resignation. Chatterton. 585 

Resignation .••. Longfellow. 666 

Retirement . Cowper. 602 

Retirement, The . Cotton. 499 

Reve du Midi. Cooke. 442 


Page 

Reveille. O’Connor. 356 

Rhodora, The . Emerson. 464 

Riddle, A. Fanshawe. 778 

Right must Win, The. Faber. 592 

Rise, my Soul, and stretch thy wings. Seagrave. 590 

River, The . Plumptre. 467 

Rivers of England, The. Drayton. 521 

Robin Adair. Keppel. 102 

Robin Hood and Allen-a-Dale. Unknown. 392 

Robin Redbreast. Allingham. 481 

Rock me to Sleep. Allen. 74 

Rock of Ages. Toplady. 560 

IJory O’More . Lover. 165 

Rosabelle . Scott. 405 

Rosader’s Sonetto . Lodge. 156 

Rosalind’s Madrigal . Lodge. 98 

Rosaline . Lodge. 123 

Rule, Brittania . Thomson. 355 

Ruth. Hood. 144 

Sabbath Evening . Prentice. 450 

Sabbath Morning, The. Leyden. 448 

Sack of Baltimore, The. Davis. 342 

“Sad is our youth, for it is ever going”. .De Vere. 634 

Sailor’s Consolation . Pitt. 775 

Sailor’s Wife, The. Mackay. 25 

Sally in our Alley. Carey. 120 

Samela. Greene. 102 

Sands of Dee, The. Kingsley. 419 

Saturday Afternoon. Willis. 77 

‘ ‘Saviour, who Thy flock art feeding,” 

Muhlenberg. 560 

School and School-fellows. Praed. 79 

Schoolmistress, The. Shenstone. 57 

Sea, At. Trowbridge. 519 

Sea, By the Autumn. Hayne. 520 

Sea, The . Procter. 507 

Seasons, Hymn of the. Thomson. 431 

Selkirk, Alexander, Verses Supposed to be Writ¬ 
ten by. Cowper. 699 

Seneca Lake, To. Percival. 539 

Seranade, A. Hood. 765 

Shakespeare, Epitaph on. Milton. 232 

Shakespeare, Lines on the Portrait of. . .Jonson. 232 

Shakespeare, To the Memory of. Jonson. 230 

‘ ‘Shall I tell you whom I love?”. Browne. 123 

* ‘She dwelt among the untrodden ways,” 

Wordsworth. 49 

‘ ‘She is far from the land”. Moore. 274 

‘ 'She is not fair to outward view”. . . .Coleridge. 172 

“Shepherds all, and maidens fair,” 

Beaumont cfc Fletcher. 499 

Shepherd’s Resolution, The. Wither. 169 

Sheridan’s Ride . Read. 351 

* ‘She’s gane to dwall in Heaven”. .Cunningham. 218 

* ‘She walks in beauty like the night”. . . .Byron. 739 

* ‘She was a Phantom of delight”.. .Wordsworth. 10 

Shortness of Life, The. Quarles. 635 

Shout the Glad Tidings. Muhlenberg. 553 

Sic Vita . King. 718 

Sidney, Epitaph upon Sir Philip. Raleigh. 229 

“Sigh no more, ladies”. Shakespeare. 187 

Silent Lover, The. Raleigh. 182 

Siller Croun, The. Blamire. 147 

‘ ‘Since there’s no help, come, let us kiss and 

part”. Drayton. 170 

Sir Patrick Spens. Unknown. 369 






















































































































INDEX OF THE NAMES OF THE POEMS. 


XXIX 


Page 


Sister of Elia, To the. Landor. 

Sixteen . Landor. 

Skeleton, To a. Unknown. 

Skinner, Cyriac, To. Milton. 

Skipper Ireson’s Ride. Whittier 

Skylark, The . Hogg. 

Skylark, Toa. Shelley. 

Skylark, To a. Wordsworth. 

Skylark, To a. Wordsworth. 

Sleep, On. Daniel. 

Sleep, On . Sidney. 

Sleep, The. Browning. 

Sleeping Babe, The. Hinds. 

Sleeping and Watching. Browning. 

Soldier’s Dream, The . Campbell. 

Solitude, Ode on. Pope. 

Solitude, Of . Cowley. 

Somerset, Upon the Sudden Restraint of the 

Earl of . Wotton. 

Son-Dayes. Vaughan. 

Song at the Feast of Brougham Castle, 

Wordsworth. 

Song from Valentinian. .Beaumont & Fletcher. 

Song of the Camp, The. Taylor. 

Song of the Cornishmen. Hawker. 

Song of the fairies. Lyly. 

Song of the North, A. Doten. 

Song of the Shirt, The. Hood. 

Song of the Birds, The. Lyly. 

Song of Seven. Ingelow. 


Sonnets. .Shakespeare 2x8, 219, 220, 750, 751, 

Sonnets to Stella. Sir Philip Sidney. 191, 

Sonnets from the Portuguese. .E. B. Browning. 

134, 135, 

Sonnet Written on a Blank Leaf of Dugdale’s 


Monasticon . .. Warton. 

Sorrows of Werther, The. Thackeray. 

Soul’s Defiance, The. Stoddard 

“Sound the Loud Timbrel”. Moore. 

Speculation, A . Moore. 

Spider and the Fly, The. Howitt. 

Spring . Nash. 

Spring... T imrod. 

Spring Day, The First . Todhunter. 

Spring, Description of. Surrey. 

Spring, Lines Written in Early. Wordsworth. 

Spring, On the. Gray. 

Spring, To. Drummond. 

Squire's Pew, The. Taylor. 

St. Agnes’ Eve. Tennyson. 

Stanzas on Woman. Goldsmith. 

Stanzas written in Dejection near Naples, Shelley. 

Star of Bethlehem, The . White. 

Star-Spangled Banner, The. Key. 

St. Cecilia’s Day, On. Pope. 

St. Cecilia’s Day, Song for. Dry den. 

St. David’s at Radnor, Old. Longfellow. 

Steadfast Shepherd, The . Wither. 

“Still to be neat, still to be drest”. Jorison. 

Stolen Kiss, A . Wither. 

Stonewall Jackson’s Way. Palmer. 

Storm, The. Procter. 

Storm Petrel, The. Procter. 

Stranger and his Friend, The. Montgomery. 

Stranger on the Sill, The. Read. 

Stream of Life, The. Clough. 

S lim mer. Thurlow. 


274 

214 

662 

236 

373 

477 

478 
477 
477 
759 
756 
642 

45 

33 

83 

753 

438 

232 

580 

225 

762 

216 

343 

779 

422 

711 

484 

19 

752 

192 


136 

747 

775 
685 
570 

776 
707 
435 
440 
439 
433 
439 
435 
433 
691 
566 
707 
262 
597 
353 
725 
724 
540 
153 
738 
156 
352 
515 
474 
561 

75 

634 

442 


Page 

Summer Longings. McCarthy. 437 

Summer Shower, After a . Norton. 439 

Sunday. Herbert. 580 

Sunsetting, At . Wither. 576 

Supplication, A . Cowley. 121 

Sweet and Low. Tennyson. 31 

S weet-and-Twenty. Shakespeare. 163 

Sweet are the Charms . Booth. 154 

Sweet Baby, Sleep . Wither. 34 

Sweet Content..•. Dekker. 680 

Sweet Innisfallen . Moore. 535 

“Sweet is the rose”. Spenser. 756 

Sweet William’s Farewell to Black-Eyed Susan 

Gay. 119 

Tacking Ship off Shore . Mitchel. 516 

Tam O’Shanter. Burns. 769 

Teacher’s Dream, The . Venable. 91 

Tears of Scotland, The.;. Smollett. 326 

Tears Wept at the Grave of Sir Albertus Morton 

Wotton. 230 

Tell me How to Woo Thee. Graham. 161 

Tempest, Ballad of the. Fields. 38 

Thanatopsis . Bryant. 644 

Thanksgiving Hymn . Alford. 578 

Thanksgiving to God for his House. Herrick. 579 

* ‘The doubt which ye misdeem, fair love, is vain” 

Spenser. 101 

‘ ‘The dule’s i’ this bonnet o’ mine”. Waugh. 166 

“The God of Abraham praise”. Olivers. 603 

“The harp that once through Tara’s halls,” 

Moore. 362 

‘ ‘The heath this night must be my bed”. . .Scott. 186 

“The house is dark and dreary”. Stoddard. 758 

“The lark now leaves his watery nest,” 

Davenant. 476 

“The merchant, to secure his treasure”. .Prior. 142 
‘ ‘The midges dance aboon the bum,”. Tannahill. 449 
‘ ‘There be none of Beauty’s daughters,”.. Byron. 157 

‘ ‘There be those who sow beside”. Barton. 637 

“There is a garden in her face”. Alison. 185 

“There is a green hill far away”. .. .Alexander. 632 

“There is a Happy Land”. Young. 619 

* ‘There is a land of pure delight ”. Watts. 619 

‘ ‘There’s not a joy the world can give”. .Byron. 676 
“The spacious firmament on high”. ..Addison. 565 

“The Spirit in our hearts”. Onderdonk. 593 

“The sun rises bright in France”. .Cunningham. 358 
“The world is too much with us”. .Wordsworth. 452 

* ‘The wretch, condemn’d with Ufe to part,” 

Goldsmith. 758 

They are all gone . Vanghan. 617 

They’re Dear Fish to Me. Unknown. 513 

Thomas a Kempis . Bowker. 584 

Thomson, On the Death of. Collins. 246 

“Thou art, O God, the life and light”. .Moore. 571 

Thoughts in a Garden. Marvell. 501 

Thoughts in a Library. Botta. 736 

“Thou hast Sworn by thy God”. .Cunningham. 157 

Three Fishers, The. .Kingsley. 513 

Three Loves. Hooper. 156 

Three Sons, The. Moultrie. 50 

Three Troopers, The. Thornbury. 310 

Three Warnings, The . Piozzi. 639 

‘ ‘Three years she grew in sun and shower," 

Wordsworth. 49 

Thrush’s Nest, The . Clare. 480 











































































































XXX 


INDEX OF THE NAMES OF THE POEMS. 


Page 

“Thy voice is heard thro’ rolling drums,” 


Tennyson. 741 

“Thy Way, not Mine”. Bonar. 608 

Thy Will be Done . Elliott. 586 

Thy Will be Done. Waring. 587 

Tiger, The . Blake. 498 

Time . Scott. 717 

Time. Watson. 172 

Tintern Abbey, Lines Composed Near, 

• Wordsworth. 540 

“’Tis sweet to hear the merry lark”. .Coleridge. 476 

To Himself . Jonson. 227 

‘ ‘To live in hell and heaven to behold,” Constable. 212 

Tom Bowling. Dibdin. 659 

Tombs in Westminster Abbey, The. Beaumont. 522 

Tom Dunstan . Buchanan. 760 

Tommy’s Dead .. Dobell. 640 

“To one who has been long in city pent,’’..Keats. 503 

Too Late. Craik. 17 

“Too late, alas! I must confess”... .Rochester. 126 

“To sigh, yet feel no pain”. Moore. 182 

“To Thy temple I repair”. Montgomery. 581 

T. L. II., Fix Years Old, To. Hunt. 36 

Touchstone, The . Allingham. 685 

Toujours Amour. Stedman. 163 

Treason. Harrington. 759 

Treasures of the Deep, The. Hemans. 517 

Triumph of Charis, The. Jonson. 160 

Trooper to his Mare, The. Halpine. 497 

Twa Corbies, The. Unknotvn. 416 

“’Twas when the seas were roaring”. Gay. 125 

Twenty-One . v ...Dorr. 44 

Twenty Years Ago. Unknown. 78 

Twilight at Sea. Welby. 515 

Twins, The . Leigh. 776 

Ulysses . Tennyson. 289 

Under the Greenwood Tree. Shakespeare. 466 

Universal Prayer, The. Pope. 565 

Unseen World. Rossetti. 663 

Unwin, Mrs., To. Cowper. 247 

Up-Hill. Rossetti. 598 


Vagabonds, The . Trowbridge. 

Valediction forbidding Mourning . Donne. 

Vanity of Human Wishes, The. Johnson. 

Vanity of the World, The. Quarles. 

Venetian Republic, On the Extinction of, 

Wordsworth. 

Veni Creator . Dryden. 

Veni Creator Spiritus. Unknown. 

Very Mournful Ballad, A. Byron. 

Very Young Lady, To a. Sedley. 

Village Blacksmith, The . Longfellow. 

Villiers, Lady Mary, Epitaph on the. . . .Carew. 

Violet, The . Story. 

Virgins to Make Much of Time, To. Herrick. 

Virtue . Herbert. 

Vision upon this Conceit of the Faerie Queene, A 

Raleigh. 

Vita Nuova . Plumptre. 

Voiceless, The. Holmes. 

Vox et proeterea nihil. London Punch. 


712 

661 

669 

674 

347 

563 

562 

296 

189 

739 

276 

462 

123 

682 


737 

281 

646 

775 


War’s me for Prince Charlie . Glen. 325 

Walking with God .. Cowper. 584 

Waly, waly, but Love be Bonny. Unknown. 103 


Page 

Wandering Jew, The. Unknown. 376 

Warren’s Address . Pierpont. 328 

Watchman, tell us of the Night. Bowing. 543 

Water-Fowl, To a. .Bryant. 475 

We are Seven. Wordsworth. 51 

Weary in Well-Doing . Rossetti. 611 

Web of Life, The. Moore. 637 

Weep no More. John Fletcher. 759 

Welcome, The. Browne. 125 

Welcome, The . Davis. 158 


Wellington, Ode on the Death of the Duke of 

Tennyson. 271 

Westminster Bridge, Sonnet Composed on 

Wordsworth. 521 

West Point . Strong. 90 

West Wind, To the. Shelley. 445 

Wet sheet and a flowing sea, A. . . .Cunningham. 509 

‘ ‘What, ails this heart o’ mine ”. Blamire. 199 

“What are these in bright array” .Montgomery. 618 

What is Prayer?. Montgomery. 583 

What Love is Like. Middleton. 184 

What Mr. Robinson Thinks . Lowell. 778 

“When all Thy mercies, O my God”. .Addison. 567 
“When coldness wraps this suffering clay,” 

Byron. 645 

“When gathering clouds around 1 view,’’.Grant. 589 
“When icicles hang by the wall”. .Shakespeare. 447 

When Maggie Gangs Away. Hogg. 161 

“When midnight o’er the moonless skies,” 

Spencer. 94 

‘ ‘When our heads are bowed with woe,” Milman. 602 

When she comes home again. Riley. 28 

“When stars are in the quiet skies”. . . . Lytlon. 218 
When the Assault was Intended to the City, 

Milton. 314 

“When the hounds of Spring are on Winter’s 


traces” . Swinburne. 434 

When the Kye comes Hame. Hogg. 167 

“When we two parted”. Byron. 86 

“Where did you come from?”. Macdonald. 31 

“Where are you Going, my Pretty Maid?” 

Unknown. 776 

“Where lies the land ”. Clough. 520 

“Where shall the lover rest”. Scott. 176 

Which shall it be? . Beers. 45 

Whilst Thee I Seek. Williams. 592 

Whisper . Wynne. 442 

White Rose, The. Unknown. 214 

Who is Sylvia?. Shakespeare. 216 

Why so Pale?. Suckling. 104 

Wife, A . Allingham. 12 

Wife, Lines Written to his. Hebcr. 9 

Wife, To my . Bayly. 9 

William and Margaret. Mallet. 175 

Willie Winkie . Miller. 41 

Will of God, The. Faber. 586 

Windsor Castle, After seeing. War ton. 522 

Winged Worshippers, The. Sprague. 452 

Winifreda. Unknovm. 7 

Winsome Wee Thing, The. Burns. 9 

Wish, A . Rogers. 6 

Wishes for the Supposed Mistress.... Crashaw. 121 

With a Guitar, to Jane. Shelley. 730 

“With broken heart and contrite sigh,”. .Elven. 582 

Without and Within . Stoddard. 12 

Without Him . Rutter. 686 

Woman’s Answer, A . Procter. 188 








































































































INDEX OF THE NAMES OF THE POEMS. 


XXXI 


Page 

Woman's Inconstancy.. Ayton. 141 

Woman’s Question, A . Procter. 187 

Wonderfu’ Wean, The. Miller. 42 

Woodman, Spare that Tree!. Morris. 75 

Wreck of the Hesperus, The. Longfellow. 514 

Wrestling Jacob . Wesley. 591 

Yarrow Revisited . Wordsxrorth. 529 

Yarrow Unvisited. Wordsworth. 528 


Page 

Yarrow Visited . Wordsworth. 52S 

Ye Gentlemen of England . Parker. 507 

“Ye golden lamps of heaven, farewell,” 

Doddridge. 608 

Ye Mariners of England. Campbell. 356 

Young Airly. Unknown. 324 

Youth and Age. Coleridge. 94 

Zara’s Ear-Rings . Lockhart. 183 




















♦ 


V 































AN UNFORTUNATE GENIUS 

The story of Edgar Allan Poe’s life is tragic in the intensity of hjs suffering. 



















GREAT AMERICAN POETS 

Whose best works appear in the “ Golden Treasury of Poetry and Song.” 






Home 


Poetry 


OF 

and the Fireside. 


Home, Sweet Home. 

Mid pleasures and palaces though we may 
roam, 

Be it ever so humble, there’s no place like 
home! 

A charm from the sky seems to hallow us 
there, 

Which, seek through the world, is ne’er 
met with elsewhere. 

Home, home, sweet, sweet, home! 

There’s no place like home! 

An exile from home, splendor dazzles in 
vain; 

Oh! give me my lowly thatch’d cottage 
again! 

The birds, singing gayly, that came at my 
call— 

Give me them!—and the peace of mind 
dearer than all. 

Home, sweet, sweet, sweet, home ! 

There’s no place like home! 

John Howard Payne. 

The Homes of England. 

The stately Homes of England ! 

How beautiful they stand, 

Amidst their tali, ancestral trees, 

O’er all the pleasant land ! 

The deer across their greensward bound, 
Through shade and sunny gleam, 

And the swan glides past them with the 
sound 

Of some rejoicing stream. 

The merry Homes of England! 

Around their hearths by night, 

What gladsome looks of household love 
Meet in the ruddy light! 

1 


There woman’s voice flows forth in song, 
Or childhood’s tale is told, 

Or lips move tunefully along 
Some glorious page of old. 

The blessed Homes of England ! 

How softly on their bowers 
Is laid the holy quietness 
That breathes from Sabbath hours! 
Solemn, yet sweet, the church-bell’s chime 
Floats through their woods at morn ; 

All other sounds, in that still time, 

Of breeze and leaf are born. 

The cottage Homes of England! 

By thousands on her plains, 

They are smiling o’er the silvery brooks, 
An 1 round the hamlet fanes. 

Through glowing orchards forth they peep. 
Each from its nook of leaves, 

And fearless there the lowly sleep, 

As the bird beneath their eaves. 

The free, fair Homes of England ! 

Long, long, in hut and hall, 

May hearts of native proof be rear’d 
To guard each hallow’d Avail! 

And green for ever be the groves, 

And bright the floAvery sod, 

Where first the child’s glad spirit loves 

Its country and its God ! 

Felicia Dorothea Hemans. 

My Ain Fireside. 

I hae seen great anes, and sat in great ha's, 
’Mang lords and fine ladies a’ cover’d Avi s 
braws, 

At feasts made for princes Avi’ princes I've 
been, 

When the grand shine o’ splendor has 
dazzled my een; 


1 




o 


FIRESIDE ENCYCLOPAEDIA OF POETRY. 


But a sight sae delightfu’ I trow I ne’er 
spied 

As the bonny blithe blink o’ my ain fireside. 

My ain fireside, my ain fireside, 

Oh cheery’s the blink o’ my ain fireside; 
My ain fireside, my ain fireside, 

Oh, there’s naught to compare wi’ ane’s 
ain fireside. 

Ance mair, Gude be thankit, round my ain 
heartsome ingle, 

Wi’ the friends o’ my youth I cordially 
mingle; 

Nae forms to compel me to seem wae or 
glad, 

I may laugh when I’m merry, and sigh 
when I’m sad. 

Nae falsehood to dread, and nae malice to J 
fear, 

But truth to delight me, and friendship to 
cheer; 

Of a’ roads to happiness ever were tried, 

There’s nane half so sure as ane’s ain fire¬ 
side. 

My ain fireside, my ain fireside, 

Oh, there’s naught to compare wi’ ane’s 
ain fireside. 

When I draw in my stool on my cozy 
heartlistane, 

My heart loups sae light I scarce ken’t for 
my ain; 

Care’s down on the wind, it is clean out o’ 
sight, 

Past troubles they seem but as dreams o’ 
the night. 

I hear but kend voices, kend faces I see, 

And mark saft affection glent fond frae 
ilk ee; 

Nae fieechings o’ flattery, nae boastings o’ 
pride, 

’Tis heart speaks to heart at ane’s ain fire¬ 
side. 

My ain fireside, my ain fireside, 

Oh there’s naught to compare wi’ ane’s 
ain fireside. 

Elizabeth Hamilton. 

The Happy Marriage. 

How blest has my time been, what joys 
have I known, 

ince wedlock’s soft bondage made Jessy 
my own! 


So joyful my heart is, so easy my chain, 

That freedom is tasteless, and roving a pain. 

Through walks grown with woodbines, as 
often we stray, 

Around us our boys and girls frolic and play: 

How pleasing their sport is! The wanton 
ones see, 

And borrow their looks from my Jessy and 
me. 

To try her sweet temper, ofttimes am I seen, 

In revels all day, with the nymphs on the 
green: 

Though painful my absence, my doubts 
she beguiles, 

And meets me at night with complacence 
and smiles. 

What though on her cheeks the rose loses 
its hue, 

Her wit and good-humor bloom all the 
year through; 

Time still, as he flies, adds increase to her 
truth, 

And gives to her mind what he steals from 
her youth. 

Ye shepherds so gay, who make love to 
ensnare 

And cheat with false vows the too credu 
lous fair; 

In search of true pleasure, how vainly you 
roam! 

To hold it for life, you must find it at home. 

Edward Moore. 

The Fireside. 

Dear Chloe, while the busy crowd, 
The vain, the wealthy, and the proud. 

In folly’s maze advance, 

Though singularity and pride 
Be call’d our choice, we’ll step aside. 
Nor join the giddy dance. 

From the gay world we’ll oft retire 
To our own family and fire, 

Where love our hours employs; 

No noisy neighbor enters here, 

No intermeddling stranger near, 

To spoil our heartfelt joys. 

If solid happiness we prize, 

Within our breast this jewel lies, 

And they are fools who roam; 









POETRY OF HOME AND THE FIRESIDE. 


The world hath nothing to bestow— 

From our own selves our bliss must flow, 
And that dear hut, our home. 

Of rest was Noah’s dove bereft, 

When with impatient wing she left 
That safe retreat, the ark; 

Giving her vain excursion o’er, 

The disappointed bird once more 
Explored the sacred bark. 

Though fools spurn Hymen’s gentle powers, 
We, who improve his golden hours, 

By sweet experience know 
That marriage, rightly understood, 

Gives to the tender and the good 
A paradise below. 

Our babes shall richest comforts bring; 

If tutor’d right, they’ll prove a spring 
Whence pleasures ever rise; 

We’ll form their minds with studious care 
To all that’s manly, good, and fair, 

And train them for the skies. 

While they our wisest hours engage, 
They’ll joy our youth, support our age, 
And crown our hoary hairs; 

They’ll grow in virtue every day, 

And thus our fondest loves repay, 

And recompense our cares. 

No borrow’d joys, they’re all our own, 
While to the world we live unknown, 

Or by the world forgot ; 

Monarchs! we envy not your state— 

We look with pity on the great, 

And bless our humble lot. 

Our portion is not large, indeed; 

But then how little do we need, 

For Nature’s calls are few ! 

In this the art of living lies— 

To want no more than may suffice, 

And make that little do. 

We’ll therefore relish with content 
Whate’er kind Providence has sent, 

Nor aim beyond our power; 

For, if our stock be very small, 

; Tis prudence to enjoy it all, 

Nor lose the present hour. 

To be resign’d when ills betide, 

Patient when favors are denied, 

And pleased with favors given— 


Dear G’hloe, this is wisdom’s part, 

This is that incense of the heart 
Whose fragrance smells to heaven. 

We’ll ask no long-protracted treat, 

Since winter-life is seldom sweet; 

But, when our feast is o’er, 

Grateful from table we’ll arise, 

Nor grudge our sons, with envious eyes, 
The relics of our store. 

Thus hand in hand through life we’ll go; 
Its chequer’d paths of joy and woe 
With cautious steps we’ll tread ; 

Quit its vain scenes without a tear, 
Without a trouble or a fear, 

And mingle with the dead; 

While conscience, like a faithful friend, 
Shall through the gloomy vale attend, 

And cheer our dying breath— 

Shall, when all other comforts cease, 

Like a kind angel whisper peace, 

And smooth the bed of death. 

Nathaniel Cotton. 

The Cotter’s Saturday Night. 

Inscribed to Robert Aiken, Esq. 

“ Let not Ambition mock their useful toil, 

Their homely joys, and destiny obscure; 

Nor Grandeur hear, with a disdainful smile, 

The short and simple annals of the poor.”—G ray 

My lov’d, my honor’d, much-respected 
friend! 

No mercenary bard his homage pays; 
With honest pride, I scorn each selfish end: 
My dearest meed, a friend’s esteem and 
praise; 

To you I sing, in simple Scottish lays, 
The lowly train in life’s sequester’d scene; 
The native feelings strong, the guileless 
ways; 

What Aiken in a cottage would have 
been; 

Ah ! tho’ his worth unknown, far happier 
there, I ween! 

November chill blaws loud wi’ angry sugh; 

The short’ning winter-day is near a close; 
The miry beasts retreating frae the pleugh; 
The black’ning trains o’ craws to their 
repose: 

The toil-worn Cotter frae his labor goes,— 









4 


FIRESIDE ENCYCLOPAEDIA OF POETRY. 


This night his weekly moil is at an end,— 

Collects his spades, his mattocks, and his 
hoes, 

Hoping the morn in ease and rest to 
spend, 

And weary, o’er the moor, his course does 
hameward bend. 

At length his lonely cot appears in view, 

Beneath the shelter of an aged tree; 

Th’ expectant wee-things, toddlin, stacher 
through 

To meet their “dad,” wi’ flichterin’ noise 
an’ glee. 

His wee bit ingle, blinkin’ bonnilie, 

His clean hearth-stane, his thriftie wifie’s 
smile, 

The lisping infant, prattling on his knee, 

Hoes a’ his weary kiaugh and care beguile, 

And makes him quite forget his labor and 
his toil. 

Belyve, the elder bairns come drapping in, 

At service out, amang the farmers roun’ ; 

Some ca’ the pleugh, some herd, sometentie 
rin 

A cannie errand to a neibor town : 

Their eldest hope, their Jenny, woman 
grown, 

In youthfu’ bloom—love sparkling in her 
e’e— 

Comes hame; perhaps, to show a braw 
new gown, 

Or deposite her sair-won penny-fee, 

To help her parents dear, if they in hard¬ 
ship be. 

With joy unfeign’d, brothers and sisters 
meet, 

And each for other’s welfare kindly 
spiers: 

The social hours, swift-wing’d, unnoticed 
fleet; 

Each tells the uncos that he sees or hears. 

The parents, partial, eye their hopeful 
years; 

Anticipation forward points the view; 

The mother, wi’ her needle and her 
shears, 

Gars auld claes look amaist as weel’s the 
new: 

The father mixes a’ wi’ admonition due. 


Their master’s and their mistress’s com¬ 
mand, 

The younkers a’ are warned to obey; 

And mind their labors wi’ an eydent hand, 

And ne’er, tho’ out o’ sight, to jauk or 
play; 

“And oh, be sure to fear the Lord alway, 

And mind your duty, duly, morn and night; 

Lest in temptation’s path ye gang astray, 

Implore His counsel and assisting might: 

They never sought in vain that sought the 
Lord aright.” 

But hark! a rap comes gently to the door; 

Jenny, wha kens the meaning o’ the 
same, 

Tells how a neibor lad came o’er the moor, 

To do some errands, and convoy her 
hame. 

The wily mother sees the conscious flame 

Sparkle in Jenny’s e’e, and flush her cheek; 

With heart-struck anxious care, inquires 
his name, 

While Jenny hafflins is afraid to speak ; 

Weel pleased the mother hears, it’s nae 
wild, worthless rake. 

With kindly welcome, Jenny brings him 
ben; 

A strappin’ youth, he takes the mother’s 
eye; 

Blythe Jenny sees the visit’s no ill ta’en; 

The father cracks of horses, pleughs, and 
kve. 

The youngster’s artless heart o’erflows 
wi’ joy, 

But, blate an’ laithfu’, scarce can weel 
behave; 

The mother, wi’ a woman’s wiles, can spy 

What makes the youth sae bashfu’ an’ sae 
grave; 

Weel pleased to think her bairn’s respected 
like the lave. 

O happy love ! where love like this is found: 

0 heartfelt raptures! bliss beyond com¬ 
pare ! 

I’ve paced much this weary, mortal round, 

And sage experience bids me this de¬ 
clare,— 

“ If Heaven a draught of heavenly pleas¬ 
ure spare— 







POETRY OF HOME AND THE FIRESIDE. 


5 


One cordial in this melancholy vale,— 

’Tis when a youthful, loving, modest pair 

In other’s arms breathe out the tender tale, 

Beneath the milk-white thorn that scents 
the evening gale.” 

Is there, in human form, that bears a heart, 
A wretch! a villain! lost to love and 
truth! 

That can, with studied, sly, ensnaring art, 
Betray sweet Jenny’s unsuspecting 
youth ? 

Curse on his perjured arts ! dissembling, 
smooth! 

Are honor, virtue, conscience, all exiled ? 

Is there no pity, no relenting ruth, 

Points to the parents fondling o’er their 
child? 

Then paints the ruin’d maid, and their dis¬ 
traction wild? 

But now the supper crowns their simple 
board, 

The halesome parritch, chief of Scotia’s 
food; 

The sowjie their only hawkie does afford, 
That, ’yont the hallan snugly chows her 
cood: 

The dame brings forth, in complimental 
mood, 

To grace the lad, her weel-hain’d keb- 
buck, fell ; 

And aft he’s prest, and aft he ca’s it guid: 

The frugal wifie, garrulous, will tell 

How ’twas a towmond auld, sin’ lint was i’ 
the bell. 

The cheerfu’ supper done, wi’ serious face, 
They, round the ingle, form a circle wide; 

The sire turns o’er, with patriarchal grace, 
The big ha’ Bible, ance his father’s pride: 
His bonnet rev’rently is laid aside, 

His lyart haffets wearing thin and bare ; 
Those strains that once did sweet in Zion 
glide, 

He wales a portion with judicious care; 

And “ Let us worship God !” he says with 
solemn air. 

They chant their artless notes in simple 
guise, 

They tune their hearts, by far the no¬ 
blest aim: 


Perhaps “ Dundee’s ” wild warbling meas¬ 
ures rise, 

Or plaintive “ Martyrs,” worthy of the 
name; 

Or noble “ Elgin ” beets the heavenward 
flame, 

The sweetest far of Scotia’s holy lays: 

Compared with these, Italian trills are 
tame: 

The tickled ears no heartfelt raptures 
raise; 

Nae unison hae they with our Creator’s 
praise. 

The priest-like father reads the sacred page, 

How Abram was the friend of God on 
high; 

Or, Moses bade eternal warfare wage 

With Amalek’s ungracious progeny; 

Or, how the royal bard did groaning lie 

Beneath the stroke of Heaven’s avenging 
ire; 

Or Job’s pathetic plaint, and wailing cry; 

Or rapt Isaiah’s wild, seraphic fire ; 

Or other holy seers that tune the sacred 
lyre. 

Perhaps the Christian volume is the theme, 

How guiltless blood for guilty man was 
shed ; 

How He, who bore in Heaven the second 
name, 

Had not on earth whereon to lay His 
head : 

How His first followers and servants sped; 

The precepts sage they wrote to many a 
land: 

How he, who lone in Patinos banished, 

Saw in the sun a mighty angel stand, 

And heard great Bab’lon’s doom pro¬ 
nounced by Heaven’s command. 

Then kneeling down, to Heaven’s Eternal 
King 

The saint, the father, and the husband 
prays: 

Hope “springs exulting on triumphant 
wing,” 

That thus they all shall meet in future 
days, 

There, ever bask in uncreated rays, 

No more to sigh, or shed the bitter tear, 

Together hymning their Creator’s praise 









G 


FIRESIDE ENCYCLOPAEDIA OF POETRY. 


In such society, yet still more dear, 

While circling time moves round in an 
eternal sphere. 

Compared with this, how poor Religion's 
pride, 

In all the pomp of method, and of art, 

When men display to congregations wide 

Devotion’s ev’ry grace, except the 
heart! 

The Power, incensed, the pageant will 
desert, 

The pompous strain, the sacerdotal stole; 

But haply, in some cottage far apart, 

May hear, well pleased, the language of 
the soul; 

And in His Book of Life the inmates poor 
enroll. 

Then homeward all take off their sev’ral 
way; 

The youngling cottagers retire to rest: 

The parent pair their secret homage pay, 

And proffer up to Heaven the warm 
request, 

That He who stills the raven’s clam’rous 
nest, 

And decks the lily fair in flow’ry pride, 

Would, in the way His wisdom sees the 
best, 

For them and for their little ones provide; 

But chiefly, in their hearts with grace divine 
preside. 

From scenes like these old Scotia’s grandeur 
springs, 

That makes her loved at home, revered 
abroad: 

Princes and lords are hut the breath of kings, 

“ An honest man’s the noblest work of 
God;” 

And certes, in fair Virtue’s heavenly road, 

The cottage leaves the palace far behind; 

What is a lordling’s pomp? a cumbrous 
load, 

Disguising oft the wretch of human kind, 

Studied in arts of hell, in wickedness refined! 

0 Scotia! my dear, my native soil! 

For whom my warmest wish to Heaven 
is sent, 

Long may thy hardy sons of rustic toil 

Be blest with health, and peace, and 
sweet content! 


And oh, may Heaven their simple lives 
prevent 

From luxury’s contagion, weak and vile! 
Then, howe’er crowns and coronets be 
rent, 

A virtuous populace may rise the while, 
And stand a wall of fire around their much¬ 
loved isle. 

O Thou ! who pour’d the patriotic tide, 
That stream’d thro’ Wallace’s undaunted 
heart, 

Who dared to nobly stem tyrannic pride, 
Or nobly die, the second glorious part: 
(The patriot’s God, peculiarly Thou art, 
His friend, inspirer, guardian, and re¬ 
ward !) 

Oh never, never Scotia’s realm desert; 
But still the patriot, and the patriot-bard, 
In bright succession raise, her ornament 
and guard! 

Robert Burns. 

A Wish. 

Mine be a cot beside the hill; 

A beehive’s hum shall soothe my ear; 

A willowy brook, that turns a mill, 

With many a fall shall linger near. 

The swallow, oft, beneath my thatch, 

Shall twitter from her clay-built nest; 
Oft shall the pilgrim lift the latch, 

And share my meal, a welcome guest. 

Around my ivied porch shall spring 

Each fragrant flower that drinks the dew; 
And Lucy, at her wheel, shall sing 
In russet gown and apron blue. 

The village church, among the trees, 
Where first our marriage vows were given, 
With merry peals shall swell the breeze, 
And point with taper spire to heaven. 

Samuel Rogers. 

A Picture. 

The farmer sat in his easy-chair 
Smoking his pipe of clay, 

While his hale old wife, with busy care, 

Was clearing the dinner away; 

A sweet little girl, with fine blue eyes, 

On her grandfather’s knee was catching 
flies, 





POETRY Ob HUME AND THE FIRESIDE. 


7 


The old man laid his hand on her head, 
With a tear on his wrinkled face ; 

He thought how often her mother, dead, 
Had sat in the self-same place. 

As the tear stole down from his half-shut 
eye, 

“ Don’t smoke!” said the child ; “ how it 
makes you cry!” 

The house-dog lay stretch’d out on the 
floor, 

Where the shade after noon used to steal; 
The busy old wife, by the open door, 

Was turning the spinning-wheel; 

And the old brass clock on the manteltree 
Had plodded along to almost three. 

Still the farmer sat in his easy-chair, 
While close to his heaving breast 
The moisten’d brow and the cheek so fair 
Of his sweet grandchild were press’d; 
His head, bent down, on her soft hair lay : 
Fast asleep were they both, that summer 
day! 

Charles G. Eastman. 

J/A TRIMONIAL HAPPINESS. 

When I upon thy bosom lean, 

And fondly clasp thee a’ my ain, 

I glory in the sacred ties 
That made us ane wha ance were twain. 
A mutual flame inspires us baith, 

The tender look, the meltin’ kiss; 

Even years shall ne’er destroy our love, 
But only gi’e us change o’ bliss. 

Hae I a wish ? it’s a’ for thee! 

I ken thy wish is me to please; 

Our moments pass sae smooth away 
That numbers on us look and gaze; 

Weel pleased they see our happy days, 

Nor envy’s sel’ finds aught to blame; 
And aye when weary cares arise, 

Thy bosom still shall be my hame. 

I’ll lay me there and tak’ my rest; 

And if that aught disturb my dear, 

I’ll bid her laugh her cares away, 

And beg her not to drop a tear. 

Hae I a joy? it’s a’ her ain ! 

United still her heart and mine; 

They’re like the woodbine round the tree, 
That’s twined till death shall them disjoin. 

John Lapraik. 


WlNIFREDA. 

Away ! let naught to love displeasing, 

My Winifreda, move your care; 

Let naught delay the heavenly blessing, 
Nor squeamish pride nor gloomy fear. 

! What though no grants of royal donors 
With pompous titles grace our blood; 

We’ll shine in more substantial honors, 
And to be noble we’ll be good. 

Our name, while virtue thus we tender, 
Will sweetly sound where’er ’tis spoke, 

And all the great ones, they shall wonder 
How they respect such little folk. 

What though from fortune’s lavish bounty 
No mighty treasures we possess; 

We’ll find within our pittance plenty, 

And be content without excess. 

Still shall each returning season 
Sufficient for our wishes give; 

For we will live a life of reason ; 

And that’s the only life to live. 

Through youth and age, in love excelling, 
We’ll hand in hand together tread; 

Sweet-smiling peace shall crown our dwell¬ 
ing, 

And babes, sweet-smiling babes, our bed. 

How should I love the pretty creatures 
While round my knees they fondly 
clung, 

To see them look their mother’s features. 
To hear them lisp their mother’s tongue! 

And when with envy time, transported, 
Shall think to rob us of our joys, 

You’ll in your girls again be courted, 

And I’ll go a-wooing in my boys. 

Author Unknown. 

Hermione. 

Wherever I wander, up and about, 

This is the puzzle I can’t make out— 

Because I care little for books, no doubt: 

I have a wife, and she is wise, 

Deep in philosophy, strong in Greek; 

Spectacles shadow her pretty eyes, 

Coteries rustle to hear her speak ; 






s 


' FIRESIDE ENCYCLOPAEDIA OF POETRY. 


She writes a little—for love, not fame ; 

Has publish’d a book with a dreary name; 
And yet (God bless her!) is mild and 
meek. 

And how I happened to woo and wed 
A wife so pretty and wise withal, 

Is part of the puzzle that fills my head— 
Plagues me at day-time, racks me in bed, 
Haunts me, and makes me appear so 
small. 

The only answer that I can see 
Is—I could not have married Hermione 
(That is her fine wise name), but she 
Stoop’d in her wisdom and married me. 

For I am a fellow of no degree, 

Given to romping and jollity; 

The Latin they thrash’d into me at school 
The world and its fights have thrash’d 
away : 

At figures alone I am no fool, 

And in city circles I say my say. 

But I am a dunce at twenty-nine, 

And the kind of study that I think fine 
Is a chapter of Dickens, a sheet of the 
Times, 

When I lounge, after work, in my easy- 
chair; 

Punch for humor, and Praed for rhymes, 
And the butterfly mots blown here and 
there 

By the idle breath of the social air. 

A little French is my only gift, 

Wherewith at times I can make a shift, 
Guessing at meanings, to flutter over 
A filigree tale in a paper cover. 

Hermione, my Hermion6! 

What could your wisdom perceive in me ? 
And, Hermione, my Hermione ! 

How does it happen at all that we 
Love one another so utterly ? 

Well, I have a bright-eyed boy of two, 

A darling who cries with lung and 
tongue about: 

As fine a fellow, I swear to you, 

As ever poet of sentiment sung about! 
And my lady-wife with the serious eyes 
Brightens and lightens when he is nigh, 
And looks, although she is deep and wise, 
As foolish and happy as he or I! 

And I have the courage just then, you see, 
To kiss the lips of Hermion6— 


Those learnfed lips that the learned praise— 
And to clasp her close as in sillier days; 
To talk and joke in a frolic vein, 

To tell her my stories of things and men • 
And it never strikes me that I’m profane, 
For she laughs and blushes, and kisses 
again; 

And, presto ! fly ! goes her wisdom then ! 
For boy claps hands, and is up on her 
breast, 

Roaring to see her so bright with mirth ; 
And I know she deems me (oh the jest!) 
The cleverest fellow on all the earth ! 

And Hermione, my Hermion6, 

Nurses her hoy and defers to me; 

Does not seem to see I’m small— 

Even to think me a dunce at all! 

And wherever I wander, up and about, 
Here is the puzzle I can’t make out: 

That Hermione, my Hermion6, 

In spite of her Greek and philosophy, 
When sporting at night with her boy and me, 
Seems sweeter and wiser, I assever— 
Sweeter and wiser, and far more clever, 
And makes me feel more foolish than ever, 
Through her childish, girlish, joyous grace. 
And the silly pride in her learnfed face ! 

That is the puzzle I can’t make out— 
Because I care little for books, no doubt; 
But the puzzle is pleasant, I know not 
why, 

For, whenever I think of it, night or 
morn, 

I thank my God she is wise, and 1 
The happiest fool that was ever born ! 

Robert Buchanan. 

John Anderson, my Jo. 

John Anderson, my jo, John, 

When we were first aequent, 

Your locks were like the raven, 

Your bonnie brow was brent; 

But now your brow is beld, John, 
Your locks are like the snaw; 

But blessings on your frosty pow, 

John Anderson, my jo! 

John Anderson, my jo, John, 

We clamb the hill thegither, 

And mony a cantie day, John, 

We’ve had wi’ ane anither: 






POETRY OF HOME AND THE FIRESIDE. 


9 


Now we maun totter down, John; 

And hand in hand we’ll go, 

And sleep thegither at the foot, 

John Anderson, my jo. 

Robert Burns. 

Lines Written to his Wife, 
While on a Visit to Upper India. 

If thou wert by my side, my love, 

How fast would evening fail 

In green Bengala’s palmy grove, 
Listening the nightingale! 

If thou, my love, wert by my side, 

My babies at my knee, 

How gaily would our pinnace glide 
O’er Gunga’s mimic sea! 

I miss thee at the dawning gray, 

When, on our deck reclined, 

In careless ease my limbs I lay, 

And woo the cooler wind. 

I miss thee when bv Gunga’s stream 
My twilight steps I guide ; 

But most beneath the lamp’s pale beam 
I miss thee from my side. 

I spread my books, my pencil try, 

The lingering noon to cheer, 

But miss thy kind, approving eye, 

Thy meek, attentive ear. 

But when of morn and eve the star 
Beholds me on my knee, 

I feel, though thou art distant far, 

Thy prayers ascend for me. 

Then on ! then on ! where duty leads, 
My course be onward still— 

On broad Hindostan’s sultry meads, 

O’er black Almorah’s hill. 

That course nor Delhi’s kingly gates 
Nor mild Malwah detain ; 

For sweet the bliss us both awaits 
By yonder western main. 

Thy towers, Bombay, gleam bright, they 
say, 

Across the dark blue sea; 

But never were hearts so light and gay 
As then shall meet in thee ! 

Reginald Heber. 


To My Wife. 

Oh, hadst thou never shared my fate, 
More dark that fate would prove: 

My heart were truly desolate 
Without thy soothing love. 

But thou hast suffer’d for my sake, 

Whilst this relief I found, 

; Like fearless lips that strive to take 
The poison from a wound. 

My fond affection thou hast seen, 

Then judge of my regret 

To think more happy thou hadst been 
If we had never met! 

And has that thought been shared by thee 
Ah, no ! that smiling cheek 

Proves more unchanging love for me 
Than labor’d words could speak. 

But there are true hearts which the sight 
Of sorrow summons forth ; 

Though known in days of past delight, 
We knew not half their worth. 

How unlike some who have profess’d 
So much in Friendship’s name, 

Yet calmly pause to think how best 
They may evade her claim. 

But ah! from them to thee I turn,— 
They’d make me loathe mankind; 

Far better lessons I may learn 
From thy more holy mind. 

The love that gives a charm to home 
I feel they cannot take: 

We’ll pray for happier years to come. 

For one another’s sake. 

Thomas Haynes Bayly 

The Winsome Wee Thing. 

She is a winsome wee thing, 

She is a handsome wee thing, 

She is a lo’esome wee thing, 

This dear wee wife o’ mine. 

I never saw a fairer, 

I never lo’ed a dearer; 

And neist my heart I’ll wear her, 
For fear my jewel tine. 

She is a winsome wee thing, 

She is a handsome wee thing, 







FIRESIDE ENCYCLOPAEDIA OF POETRY. 


10 


She is a lo’esome wee thing, 

This dear wee wife o’ mine. 

The warld’s wrack we share o’t, 

The warstle and the care o’t, 

Wi’ her I’ll blythely bear it, 

And think my lot divine. 

Kobert Burns. 

She was a Phantom of Delight. 

She was a Phantom of delight 
When first she gleam’d upon my sight; 

A lovely Apparition, sent 
To be a moment’s ornament; 

Her eyes as stars of Twilight fair; 

Like Twilight’s, too, her dusky hair; 

But all things else about her drawn 
From May-time and the cheerful Dawn ; 

A dancing Shape, an Image gay, 

To hunt, to startle, and waylay. 

I saw her, upon nearer view, 

A Spirit, yet a Woman too ! 

Her household motions light and free, 

And steps of virgin liberty; 

A countenance in which did meet 
Sweet records, promises as sweet; 

A Creature, not too bright or good 
For human nature’s daily food— 

For transient sorrows, simple wiles, 

Praise, blame, love, kisses, tears, and smiles. 

And now I see with eye serene 
The very pulse of the machine; 

A Being breathing thoughtful breath, 

A Traveller between life and death; 

The reason firm, the temperate will, 
Endurance, foresight, strength, and skill; 
A perfect Woman, nobly plann’d, 

To warn, to comfort, and command; 

And yet a Spirit still, and bright 
With something of an angel light. 

William Wordsworth. 

To Mary. 

“Thee, Mary, with this ring I wed”— 
So, fourteen years ago, I said. 

Behold another ring!—“For what?— 

To wed thee o’er again?” Why not? 
With that first ring I married youth, 
Grace, beauty, innocence, and truth; 
Taste long admired, sense long revered, 
And all my Molly then appear’d. 


If she, by merit since disclosed, 

Prove twice the woman I supposed, 

I plead that double merit now 
To justify a double vow. 

Here, then, to-day (with faith as sure, 
With ardor as intense, as pure, 

As when, amidst the rites divine, 

I took thy troth and plighted mine), 

To thee, sweet girl, my second ring, 

A token and a pledge, I bring: 

With this T wed, till death us part, 

Thy riper virtues to my heart— 

Those virtues which, before untried, 

The wife has added to the bride; 

Those virtues whose progressive claim. 
Endearing wedlock’s very name, 

My soul enjoys, my song approves, 

For conscience’ sake as well as love’s. 
And why? They show me every hour 
Honor’s high thought, Affection’s power, 
Discretion’s deed, sound Judgment’s sen 
tence, 

And teach me all things—but repentance. 

Samuel Bishop. 

The Mariner’s Wife. 

And are ye sure the news is true ? 

And are ye sure lie’s weel ? 

Is this a time to think o’ wark ? 

Ye jauds fling by your wheel! 

Is this a time to think o’ wark, 

When Colin’s at the door? 

Rax me my cloak, I’ll to the quay 
And see him come ashore. 

For there’s nae luck about the house, 
There’s nae luck at a’ ; 

There’s little pleasure in the house 
When our gudeman’s awa’. 

And gie to me my bigonet, 

My bishop’s satin gown ; 

For I maun tell the baillie’s wife 
That Colin’s come to town. 

My Turkey slippers maun gae on, 

My hose o’ pearl blue; 

It’s a’ to pleasure my ain gudeman, 

For he’s baith leal and true. 

Rise up and male a clean fireside, 

Put on the muckle pot; 

Gie little Kate her Sunday gown. 

And Jock his button coat; 






POETRY OF HOME AND THE FIRESIDE. 


11 


And male their shoon as black as slaes, 
Their hose as white as snaw; 

It’s a’ to please my ain gudeman, 

For he’s been long awa’. 

There’s twa fat hens upo’ the bank 
They’ve fed this month and mair; 

Mak haste and thraw their necks about, 
That Colin weel may fare; 

And spread the table neat and clean, 

Gar ilka thing look braw; 

For wha can tell how Colin fared 
When he was far awa’ ? 

Sae true his heart, sae smooth his speech, 
His breath like caller air; 

His very foot has music in’t 
As he comes up the stair. 

And will I see his face again ? 

And will I hear him speak ? 

I’m downright dizzy wi’ the thought, 

In troth I’m like to greet! 

Since Colin’s weel, I’m weel content, 

I hae nae mair to crave: 

Could I but live to mak him blest, 

I’m blest aboon the lave: 

And will I see his face again ? 

And will I hear him speak? 

I’m downright dizzy wi’ the thought, 

In troth I’m like to greet. 

For there’s nae luck about the house, 
There’s nae luck at a’; 

There’s little pleasure in the house 
When our gudeman’s awa’. 

Jean Adam. 

The Exile to his Wife. 

Come to me, dearest, I’m lonely without 
thee, 

Day-time and night-time, I’m thinking 
about thee; 

Night-time and day-time, in dreams I be¬ 
hold thee; 

Unwelcome the waking which ceases to 
fold thee. 

Come to me, darling, my sorrows to 
lighten; 

Come in thy beauty to bless and to 
brighten; 

Come in thy womanhood, meekly and 
lowly, 

Come in thy lovingness, queenly and holy. 


Swallows will flit round the desolate ruin, 

Telling of spring and its joyous renewing, 

And thoughts of thy love, and its mani¬ 
fold treasure, 

Are circling my heart with a promise of 
pleasure. 

0 Spring of my spirit! O May of my bosom ! 

Shine out on my soul, till it bourgeon and 
blossom; 

The waste of my life has a rose-root with¬ 
in it, 

And thy fondness alone to the sunshine 
can win it. 

Figure that moves like a song through the 
even; 

Features lit up by a reflex of heaven ; 

Eyes like the skies of poor Erin, our 
mother, 

Where shadow and sunshine are chasing 
each other; 

Smiles coming seldom, but childlike and 
simple, 

Planting in each rosy cheek a sweet 
dimple;— 

Oh, thanks to the Saviour, that even thy 
seeming 

Is left to the exile to brighten his dreaming! 

You have been glad when you knew I was 
gladden’d ; 

Dear, are you sad now to hear I am sad¬ 
den’d ? 

Our hearts ever answer in tune and in 
time, love, 

As octave to octave, and rhyme unto 
rhyme, love: 

I cannot weep but your tears will be 
flowing, 

You cannot smile but my cheek will be 
glowing; 

I would not die without you at my side, 
love; 

You will not linger when I shall have 
died, love. 

Come to me, dear, ere I die of my sorrow, 

Rise on my gloom like the sun of to¬ 
morrow ; 

Strong, swift, and fond as the words which 
I speak, love, 

With a song on your lip and a smile on 
your cheek, love. 







12 


FIRESIDE ENCYCLOPAEDIA OF POETRY. 


Come, for my heart in your absence is 
weary,— 

Haste, for my spirit is sicken’d and 
dreary,— 

Come to the arms which alone should 
caress thee, 

Come to the heart that is throbbing to 
press thee! 

Joseph Brenan. 

A WIFE 

The wife sat thoughtfully turning over 
A book inscribed with the school-girl’s 
name; 

A tear, one tear, fell hot on the cover 
So quickly closed when her husband 
came. 

He came, and he went away, it was 
nothing; 

With commonplace upon either side; 

But, just as the sound of the room-door 
shutting, 

A dreadful door in her soul stood wide. 

Love she had read of in sweet romances, 
Love that could sorrow, but never fail; 

Built her own palace of noble fancies, 

All the wide world like a fairy tale. 

Bleak and bitter and utterly doleful, 
Spread to this woman her map of life: 

Hour after hour she look’d in her soul, 
full 

Of deep dismay and turbulent strife. 

Face in hands, she knelt on the car¬ 
pet ; 

The cloud was loosen’d, the storm-rain 
fell. 

Oh life has so much to wither and warp it, 
One poor heart’s day what poet could tell? 

William Allingham. 

Without and Within. 

i. 

The night is dark, and the winter winds 
Go stabbing about with their icy spears; 

The sharp hail rattles against the panes, 
And melts on my cheeks like tears. 

’Tis a terrible night to be out of doors, 

But some of us must be, early and late; 


We needn’t ask who, for don’t we know 
It has all been settled by Fate? 

Not woman, but man. Give woman her 
flowers, 

Her dresses, her jewels, or what she de¬ 
mands : 

The work of the world must be done by 
man, 

Or why has he brawny hands ? 

As I feel my way in the dark and cold, 

I think of the chambers warm and 
bright— 

The nests where these delicate birds of 
ours 

Are folding their wings to-night! 

Through the luminous windows, above 
and below, 

I catch a glimpse of the life they lead : 

Some sew, some sing, others dress for the 
ball, 

While others (fair students) read. 

There’s the little lady who bears my 
name— 

She sits at my table now, pouring her 
tea; 

Does she think of me as I hurry home, 
Hungry and wet? Not she. 

She helps herself to the sugar and cream 
In a thoughtless, dreamy, nonchalant 
way; 

Her hands are white as the virgin rose 

That she wore on her wedding-day. 

My stubbed fingers are stain’d with ink— 
The badge of the ledger, the mark of 
trade; 

But the money I give her is clean enough, 
In spite of the way it is made. 

I wear out my life in the counting-room, 
Over day-book and cash-book, Bought 
and Sold; 

My brain is dizzy with anxious thought, 
My skin is as sallow as gold. 

How does she keep the roses of youth 
Still fresh in her cheeks ? My roses are 
flown. 

It lies in a nutshell: why do I ask? 

A woman’s life is her own. 









POETRY OF HOME AND THE FIRESIDE. 


13 


She gives me a kiss when we part for the 
day, 

Then goes to her music, blithe as a bird ; 
She reads it at sight, and the language too, 
Though I know never a word. 

She sews — a little; makes collars and 
sleeves; 

Or embroiders me slippers (always too 
small) ; 

Nets silken purses (for me to fill)— 

Often does nothing at all 

But dream in her chamber, holding a 
flower, 

Or reading my letters (she’d better read 
me)! 

Even now, while I am freezing with cold, 
She is cozily sipping her tea. 

If I ever reach home I shall laugh aloud 
At the sight of a roaring fire once more; 
She must wait, I think, till I thaw myself, 
For the usual kiss at the door. 

I'll have with my dinner a bottle of port, 
To warm up my blood and soothe my 
mind; 

Then a little music, for even I 

Like music—when I have dined. 

I’ll smoke a pipe in the easy-chair, 

And feel her behind me patting my 
head; 

Or, drawing the little one on my knee, 
Chat till the hour for bed. 

ii. 

Will he never come? I have watch’d for 
him 

Till the misty panes are roughen’d with 
sleet; 

I can see no more: shall I never hear 

The welcome sound of his feet ? 

I think of him in the lonesome night, 
Tramping along with a weary tread, 

And wish he were here by the cheery fire, 
Or I were there in his stead. 

I sit by the grate, and hark for his step, 
And stare in the fire with a troubled 
mind; 

The glow of the coals is bright in my 
face, 

But my shadow is dark behind. 


I think of woman, and think of man, 

The tie that binds, and the wrongs that 
part, 

And long to utter in burning words 

What I feel to-night in my heart. 

No weak complaint of the man I love, 

No praise of myself or my sisterhood ; 
But—something that women understand, 
By men never understood. 

Their natures jar in a thousand things; 
Little matter, alas! who is right or 
wrong. 

She goes to the wall. “She is weak!” they 
say; 

It is that that makes them strong. 

But grant us weak (as in truth we are 
In our love for them), they should make 
us strong; 

But do they? Will they? “Woman is 
weak !” 

Is the burden still of their song. 

Wherein am I weaker than Arthur, pray ? 

He has, as he should, a sturdier frame, 
And he labors early and late for me ; 

But I—I could do the same. 

My hands are willing, my brain is clear, 
The world is wide, and the workers few; 
But the work of the world belongs to man ; 
There is nothing for woman to do. 

Yes, she has the holy duties of home, 

A husband to love, and children to bear; 
The softer virtues, the social arts— 

In short, a life without care. 

So our masters say. But what do they 
know 

Of our lives and feelings when they are 
away ? 

Our household duties, our petty tasks, 

The nothings that waste the day ? 

Nay, what do they care? ’Tis enough for 
them 

That their homes are pleasant; they 
seek their ease: 

One takes a wife to flatter his pride; 
Another, to keep his keys. 

They say they love us; perhaps they do, 

In a masculine way, as they love their 
wine; 







14 


FIRESIDE ENCYCLOPAEDIA OF POETRY. 


But the soul of a woman needs something 
more, 

Or it suffers at times like mine. 

Not that Arthur is ever unkind 

In word or deed, for he loves me well; 

But I fear he thinks me weak as the rest— 
(And I may be: who can tell?) 

I should die if he changed or loved me less, 

For I live at best but a restless life; 

Yet he may, for they say the kindest men 
Grow tired of a sickly wife. 

Oh, love me, Arthur, my lord, my life! 

If not for my love and my womanly 
fears, 

At least for your child. But I hear his 
step— 

He must not find me in tears. 

Richard Henry Stoddard. 

The Poets Song to ms Wife. 

How many summers, love, 

Have I been thine? 

How many days, my dove, 

Hast thou been mine? 

Time, like the winged wind 
When’t bends the flowers, 

Hath left no mark behind, 

To count the hours ! 

Some weight of thought, though loath, 
On thee he leaves ; 

Some lines of care round both 
Perhaps he weaves; 

Some fears,—a soft regret 
For joys scarce known; 

Sweet looks we half forget; 

All else is flown! 

Ah ! with what thankless heart 
I mourn and sing! 

Look, where our children start, 

Like sudden spring! 

With tongues all sweet and low, 

Like a pleasant rhyme, 

They tell how much I owe 
To thee and Time! 

Bryan Waller Procter 
(Barry Cornwall). 


To an Absent Wife. 

Written at Biloxi. 

’Tis Morn :—the sea-breeze seems to bring 
Joy, health, and freshness on its wing; 
Bright flowers, to me all strange and new. 
Are glittering in the early dew, 

And perfumes rise from every grove, 

As incense to the clouds that move 
Like spirits o’er yon welkin clear: 

But I am sad—thou art not here! 

’Tis Noon :—a calm, unbroken sleep 
Is on the blue waves of the deep; 

A soft haze, like a fairy dream, 

Is floating over wood and stream; 

And many a broad magnolia flower, 
Within its shadowy woodland bower, 

Is gleaming like a lovely star: 

But I am sad—thou art afar! 

’Tis Eve:—on earth the sunset skies 
Are painting their own Eden dyes; 

The stars come down, and trembling glow 
Like blossoms on the waves below, 

And, like an unseen spirit, the breeze 
Seems lingering ’midst these orange trees, 
Breathing its music round the spot: 

But I a-m sad—I see thee not! 


’Tis Midnight:—with a soothing spell, 
The far tones of the ocean swell, 

Soft as a mother's cadence mild, 

Low bending o’er her sleeping child; 

And on each wandering breeze are heard 
The rich notes of the mocking-bird, 

In many a wild and wondrous lay: 

But I am sad—thou art away! 

I sink in dreams:—low, sweet, and clear, 
Thy own dear voice is in my ear; 

Around my neck thy tresses twine— 

Thy own loved hand is clasped in mine - 
Thy own soft lip to mine is pressed— 
Thy head is pillowed on my breast:— 

Oh! I have all my heart holds dear, 

And I am happy—thou art here! 

George Dennison Prentice. 








POETR Y OF HUME AND THE FIRESIDE. 


15 


Fare Thee Well / 

Fare thee well! and if for ever, 

Still for ever, fare thee well: 

Even though unforgiving, never 
’Gainst thee shall my heart rebel. 

Would that breast were bared before thee 
Where thy head so oft hath lain, 

While that placid sleep came o’er thee 
Which thou ne’er canst know again! 

Would that breast, by thee glanced over, 
Every inmost thought could show! 

Then thou wouldst at last discover 
’Twas not well to spurn it so. 

Though the world for this commend thee,— 
Though it smile upon the blow, 

Even its praises must offend thee, 

Founded on another’s woe: 

Though my many faults defaced me, 

Could no other arm be found, 

Than the one which once embraced me, 

To inflict a cureless wound? 

Tet, oh yet, thyself deceive not: 

Love may sink by slow decay, 

But by sudden wrench, believe not 
Hearts can thus be torn away: 

Still thine own its life retaineth,— 

Still must mine, though bleeding, beat; 
And the undying thought which paineth 
Is—that we no more may meet. 

These are words of deeper sorrow 
Than the wail above the dead; 

Both shall live, but every morrow 
Wake us from a widowed bed. 

And when thou wouldst solace gather, 
When our child’s first accents flow, 

Wilt thou teach her to say “Father!” 
Though his care she must forego ? 

When her little hands shall press thee, 
When her lip to thine is pressed, 

Think of him whose prayer shall bless thee, 
Think of him thy love had blessed! 

Should Lier lineaments resemble 
Those thou nevermore mayst see, 

Then thy heart will softly tremble 
With a pulse yet true to me. 


All my faults perchance thou knowest, 

All my madness none can know; 

All my hopes, where’er thou goest, 

Wither, yet with thee they go. 

Every feeling hath been shaken ; 

Pride, which not a world could bow, 
Bows to thee,—by thee forsaken, 

Even my soul forsakes me now : 

But ’tis done : all words are idle,— 

Words from me are vainer still; 

But the thoughts we cannot bridle 
Force their way without the will. 

Fare thee well!—thus disunited, 

Torn from every nearer tie, 

Seared in heart, and lone, and blighted, 

More than this I scarce can die. 

Lord Byron. 

On the Receipt of my 
Mother’s Picture. 

Oh that those lips had language ! Life has 
pass’d 

With me but roughly since I heard thee last. 
Those lips are thine—thy own sweet smile 
I see, 

The same that oft in childhood solaced me; 
Voice only fails, else how distinct they say, 
“ Grieve not, my child, chase all thy fears 
away!” 

The meek intelligence of those dear eyes 
(Blest be the Art that can immortalize,— 
The Art that baffles Time’s tyrannic claim 
To quench it!) here shines on me still the 
same. 

Faithful remembrancer of one so dear, 
0 welcome guest, though unexpected, here ! 
Who bidst me honor with an artless song, 
Affectionate, a mother lost so long. 

I will obey, not willingly alone, 

But gladly, as the precept were her own ; 
And while that face renews my filial grief, 
Fancy shall weave a charm for my relief,— 
Shall steep me in Elysian reverie, 

A momentary dream, that thou art she. 
My mother! when I learn’d that thou 
wast dead, 

Say, wast thou conscious of the tears I 
shed? 

Hover’d thy spirit o’er thy sorrowing son, 
Wretch even then, life’s journey just 
begun ? 





JO 


FIRESIDE ENCYCLOPAEDIA OF POETP 


Perhaps thou gav’st me, though unfelt, a 
kiss; 

Perhaps a tear, if souls can weep in bliss— 
Ah, that maternal smile !—it answers— 
Yes. 

I heard the hell toll’d on thy burial-day, 

I saw the hearse that bore thee slow away, 
And, turning from my nursery window, 
drew 

A long, long sigh, and wept a last adieu ! 
But was it such ?—It was.—Where thou 
art gone 

Adieus and farewells are a sound unknown. 
May I but meet thee on that peaceful 
shore, 

The parting words shall pass my lips no 
more! 

Thy maidens, grieved themselves at my 
concern, 

Oft gave me promise of thy quick return. 
What ardently I wish’d, I long believed, 
And disappointed still, was still deceived ; 
By expectation every day beguiled, 

Dupe of to-morrow even from a child. 
Thus many a sad to-morrow came and 
went, 

Till, all my stock of infant sorrows spent, 

I learn’d at last submission to my lot, 

But, though I less deplored thee, ne’er 
forgot. 

Where once we dwelt our name is heard 
no more, 

Children not thine have trod my nursery 
floor; 

And where the gardener Robin, day by day, 
Drew me to school along the public way, 
Delighted with my bauble coach, and 
wrapt 

In scarlet mantle warm, and velvet-capt, 
’Tis now become a history little known, 
That once we call’d the pastoral house our 
own. 

Short-lived possession ! But the record fair, 
That memory keeps of all thy kindness 
there, 

Still outlives many a storm, that has ef¬ 
faced 

A thousand other themes less deeply 
traced. 

Thy nightly visits to my chamber made, 
That thou mightst know me safe and 
warmly laid; 


Thy morning bounties ere I left my home, 
The biscuit, or confectionery plum ; 

The fragrant waters on my cheeks bestow’d 
By thy own hand, till fresh they shone and 
glow’d; 

All this, and, more endearing still than all, 
Thy constant flow of love, that knew no 
fall, 

Ne’er roughen’d by those cataracts and 
breaks 

That humor interposed too often makes; 

| All this, still legible in memory’s page, 
And still to be so to my latest age, 

Adds joy to duty, makes me glad to pay 
Such honors to thee as my numbers may; 

1 Perhaps a frail memorial, but sincere, 

Not scorn’d in heaven, though little no¬ 
ticed here. 

Could Time, his flight reversed, restore 
the hours, 

When playing with thy vesture’s tissued 
flowers, 

The violet, the pink, and jessamine, 

I prick’d them into paper with a pin 
(And thou wast happier than myself the 
while, 

Wouldst softly speak, and stroke my head, 
and smile),— 

Could those few pleasant days again ap¬ 
pear, 

Might one wish bring them, would I wish 
them here? 

I would not trust my heart; the dear de¬ 
light 

Seems so to be desired, perhaps I might. 
But no—what here we call our life is such, 
So little to be loved, and thou so much, 
That I should ill requite thee to constrain 
Thy unbound spirit into bonds again. 

Thou, as a gallant bark from Albion’s 
coast 

(The storms all weather’d and the ocean 
cross’d), 

Shoots into port at some w r ell-haven’d isle, 
Where spices breathe, and brighter seasons 
smile, 

There sits quiescent on the floods, that 
show 

Her beauteous form reflected clear below, 
While airs impregnated with incense play 
Around her, fanning light her streamers 
gay; 







POETRY OF HOME AND THE FIRESIDE. 


17 


So thou, with sails how swift! hast reach’d 
the shore, 

“ Where tempests never beat nor billows 
roar 

And thy loved consort on the dangerous 
tide 

Of life long since has anchor’d by thy 
side. 

But me, scarce hoping to attain that rest, 

Always from port withheld, always dis¬ 
tress’d,— 

Me howling blasts drive devious, tempest- 
toss’d, 

Sails ripp’d, seams opening wide, and com¬ 
pass lost, 

And day by day some current’s thwarting 
force 

Sets me more distant from a prosperous 
course. 

Yet oh, the thought that thou art safe, 
and he! 

That thought is joy, arrive what may to me. 

My boast is not that I deduce my birth 

From loins enthroned and rulers of the 
earth, 

But higher far my proud pretensions 
rise,— 

The son of parents pass’d into the skies. 

And now, farewell!—Time unrevoked has 
run 

His wonted course, yet what I wish’d is 
done. 

By contemplation’s help, not sought in 
vain, 

I seem to have lived my childhood o’er 
again; 

To have renew’d the joys that once were 
mine, 

Without the sin of violating thine; 

And, while the wings of fancy still are 
free, 

And I can view this mimic show of thee, 

Time has but half succeeded in his theft,— 

Thyself removed, thy power to soothe me 
left. 

William Cowper. 

TOO LATE. 

“ Dowglas, Dowglas, tendir and treu.” 

Could ye come back to me, Douglas, 
Douglas, 

In the old likeness that I knew, 


I would be so faithful, so loving, Douglas, 
Douglas, Douglas, tender and true. 

Never a scornful word should grieve ye, 

I’d smile on ye sweet as the angels do;— 
Sweet as your smile on me shone ever, 
Douglas, Douglas, tender and true. 

Oh to call back the days that are not! 

My eyes were blinded, your words were 
few; 

Do you know the truth now up in heaven, 
Douglas, Douglas, tender and true? 

I never was worthy of you, Douglas; 

Not half worthy the like of you; 

Now all men beside seem to me like 
shadows— 

I love you, Douglas, tender and true. 

Stretch out your hand to me, Douglas, 
Douglas, 

Drop forgiveness from heaven like dew ; 
As I lay my heart on your dead heart, 
Douglas, 

Douglas, Douglas, tender and true. 

Dinah Mulock Craik. 

The Family Meeting. 

We are all here, 

Father, mother, 

Sister, brother, 

All who hold each other dear. 

Each chair is fill’d; we’re all at home 1 
To-night let no cold stranger come. 

It is not often thus around 

Our old familiar hearth we’re found. 

Bless, then, the meeting and the spot; 

For once be every care forgot; 

Let gentle Peace assert her power, 

And kind Affection rule the hour. 

We’re all—all here. 

We’re not all here! 

Some are away,—the dead ones dear, 

Who throng’d with us this ancient hearth. 
And gave the hour to guileless mirth. 
Fate, with a stern, relentless hand, 

Look’d in, and thinn’d our little band; 
Some like a night-flash pass’d away, 

And some sank lingering day by day; 

The quiet graveyard,—some lie there.— 
And cruel Ocean has his share. 

We’re not all here. 











18 


FIRESIDE ENCYCLOPAEDIA OF POETRY. 


We are all here! 

Even they,—the dead,—though dead, so 
dear,— 

Fond Memory, to her duty true, 

Brings back their faded forms to view. 
How life-like, through the mist of years, 
Each well-remember’d face appears! 

We see them, as in times long past; 

From each to each kind looks are cast ; 
We hear their words, their smiles be¬ 
hold; 

They’re round us, as they were of old. 

We are all here. 

We are all here, 

Father, mother, 

Sister, brother, 

You that I love with love so dear. 

This may not long of us be said; 

Soon must we join the gather’d dead, 

And by the hearth we now sit round 
Some other circle will be found. 

Oh, then, that wisdom may we know, 
Which yields a life of peace below ! 

So, in the world to follow this, 

May each repeat in words of bliss, 

We’re all—all here! 

Charles Sprague. 

The Poet’s Bridal-Da y Song. 

Oh, my love’s like the steadfast sun, 

Or streams that deepen as they run; 

Nor hoary hairs, nor forty years, 

Nor moments between sighs and tears— 
Nor nights of thought, nor days of pain, 
Nor dreams of glory dream’d in vain— 
Nor mirth, nor sweetest song that flows 
To sober joys and soften woes, 

Can make my heart or fancy flee 
One moment, my sweet wife, from thee. 

,Even while I muse I see thee sit 
In maiden bloom and matron wit— 

Fair, gentle as Avhen first I sued, 

Ye seem, but of sedater mood; 

Yet my heart leaps as fond for thee 
As when, beneath Arbigland tree, 

We stay’d and woo’d, and thought the 
moon 

Set on the sea an hour too soon; 

Or linger’d ’mid the falling dew, 

When looks were fond and words were 
few. 


Though I see smiling at thy feet 
Five sons and ae fair daughter sweet; 

And time, and care, and birth-time woes 
Have diinm’d thine eye and touch’d thy rose; 
To thee, and thoughts of thee belong 
Whate’er charms me in tale or song; 
When words descend like dews unsoughc 
| With gleams of deep, enthusiast thought. 
And Fancy in her heaven flies free— 

They come, my love, they come from thee. 

Oh, when more thought we gave of old 
To silver than some give to gold, 

’Twas sweet to sit and ponder o’er 
How we should deck our humble bower! 
’Twas sweet to pull in hope with thee 
The golden fruit of Fortune’s tree; 

And sweeter still to choose and twine 
A garland for that brow of thine— 

A song-wreath which may grace my Jean, 

| While rivers flow and woods grow green. 

At times there come, as come there ought, 
Grave moments of sedater thought— 
When Fortune frowns, nor lends our night 
One gleam of her inconstant light; 

And Hope, that decks the peasant’s bower, 
Shines like a rainbow through the shower— 
Oh, then I see, while seated nigh, 

A mother’s heart shine in thine eye; 

And proud resolve and purpose meek, 
Speak of thee more than words can speak . 
I think this wedded wife of mine 
The best of all things not divine. 

Allan Cunningham. 

Old Folks at Home. 

’Way down upon de Swannee Ribber, 

Far, far away,— 

Dare’s wha my heart is turning ebber,— 
Dare’s wha de old folks stay. 

All up and down de whole creation 
Sadly I roam; 

Still longing for de old plantation, 

And for de old folks at home. 

All de world am sad and dreary 
Eb’rywhere I roam; 

Oh, darkeys, how my heart grows weary, 
Far from de old folks at home! 







POETRY OF HOME AND THE FIRESIDE. 


19 


All ’round de little farm I wander’d 
When I was young; 

Den many happy days I squander’d,— 
Many de songs I sung. 

When I was playing wid my brudder, 
Happy was I; 

Oh, take me to my kind old mudder! 

Dare let me live and die ! 

All de world am sad and dreary 
Eb’ry.where I roam; 

Oh, darkeys, how my heart grows weary, 
Far from de old folks at home ! 

One little hut among de bushes,— 

One dat I love,— 

Still sadly to my mem’ry rushes, 

No matter where I rove. 

When will I see de bees a-humming 
All round de comb ? 

When will I hear de banjo tumming 
Down in my good old home ? 

All de world am sad and dreary 
Eb’rywhere I roam; 

Oh, darkeys, how my heart grows weary, 
Far from de old folks at home! 

Stephen C. Foster. 

Songs of Seven. 

SEVEN TIMES ONE. 
EXULTATION. 

There’s no dew left on the daisies and 
clover, 

There’s no rain left in heaven: 

I’ve said my “ seven times ” over and over, 
Seven times one are seven. 

I am old, so old, I can write a letter; 

My birthday lessons are done; 

The lambs play always, they know no 
better; 

They are only one times one. 

O moon! in the night I have seen you 
sailing 

And shining so round and low; 

You were bright! ah bright! but your 
light is failing,—- 
You are nothing now but a bow. 

ifou moon, have you done something 
wrong in heaven 
That God H.s hidden your face? 


I hope if you have you will soon be for¬ 
given, 

And shine again in your jdace. 

0 velvet bee, you’re a dusty fellow, 

You’ve powder’d your legs with gold! 

0 brave marshmary buds, rich and yellow, 

Give me your money to hold! 

O columbine, open your folded wrapper, 

Where two twin turtle-doves dwell! 

O cuckoopint, toll me the purple clapper 

That hangs in your clear green bell! 

And show me your nest with the young 
ones in it; 

I will not steal them away; 

I am old! you may trust me, linnet, lin¬ 
net,— 

I am seven times one to-day. 

SEVEN TIMES TWO. 

ROMANCE. 

You bells in the steeple, ring, ring out 
your changes, 

How many soever they be, 

And let the brown meadow-lark’s note as 
he ranges 

Come over, come over to me. 

Yet bird’s clearest carol by fall or by 
swelling 

No magical sense conveys, 

And bells have forgotten their old art of 
telling 

The fortune of future days. 

“Turn again, turn again,” once they rang 
cheerily, 

While a boy listen’d alone ; 

Made his heart yearn again, musing so 
wearily 

All by himself on a stone. 

Poor bells! I forgive you; your good 
days are over, 

And mine, they are yet to be; 

No listening, no longing shall aught, aught 
discover: 

You leave the story to me. 

The foxglove shoots out of the green mat' 
ted heather, 

Preparing her hoods of snow; 







20 


FIRESIDE ENCYCLOPEDIA OF POETRY. 


She was idle, and slept till the sunshiny 
weather: 

Oil, children take long to grow. 

I wish, and I wish that the spring would 
go faster, 

Nor long summer hide so late; 

And I could grow on like the foxglove and 
aster, 

For some things are ill to wait. 

I wait for the day when dear hearts shall 
discover, 

'While dear hands are laid on my head; 

“ The child is a woman, the book may 
close over, 

For all the lessons are said.” 

I wait for my story—the birds cannotsing it, 

Not one, as he sits on the tree ; 

The bells cannot ring it, but long years, oh 
bring it! 

Such as I wish it to be. 

SEVEN TIMES THREE. 
love! 

I eean’d out of window, I smelt the 
white clover, 

Dark, dark was the garden, I saw not 
the gate; 

* Now, if there be footsteps, he comes, my 

one lover— 

Hush nightingale, hush ! O sweet night¬ 
ingale, wait 
Till I listen and hear 
If a step draweth near, 

For my love he is late! 

“ The skies in the darkness stoop nearer 
and nearer, 

A cluster of stars hangs like fruit in the 
tree, 

The fall of the water conies sweeter, comes 
clearer: 

To what art thou listening, and what 
dost thou see? 

Let the star-clusters glow, 

Let the sweet waters flow, 

And cross quickly to me. 

* You night-moths that hover w T here honey 

brims over 

From sycamore blossoms, or settle or 
sleep; 


You glow-worms, shine out, and the path¬ 
way discover 

To him that comes darkling along the 
rough steep. 

Ah, my sailor, make haste, 

For the time runs to waste, 

And my love lieth deep— 

“Too deep for swift telling; and yet, my 
one lover, 

I’ve conn’d thee an answer, it waits thee 
to-night.” 

By the sycamore pass’d he, and through 
the white clover, 

Then all the sweet speech I had fashion’d 
took flight; 

But I’ll love him more, more 
Than e’er wife loved before, 

Be the days dark or bright. 

SEVEN TIMES FOUR. 

MATERNITY. 

Heigh-ho ! daisies and buttercups, 

Fair yellow daffodils, stately and tall! 

When the wind wakes how they rock in 
the grasses, 

And dance with the cuckoo-buds slender 
and small! 

Here’s two bonny boys, and here’s mother’s 
own lasses, 

Eager to gather them all. 

Heigh-ho! daisies and buttercups! 

Mother shall thread them a daisy chain ; 

Sing them a song of the pretty hedge- 
sparrow, 

That loved her brown little ones, loved 
them full fain; 

Sing, “ Heart, thou art wide, though the 
house be but narrow,”— 

Sing once, and sing it again. 

Heigh-ho! daisies and buttercups, 

Sweet wagging cowslips, they bend and 
they bow; 

A ship sails afar over warm ocean waters, 

And haply one musing doth stand at her 
prow. 

O bonny brown sons, and O sweet little 
daughters, 

Maybe he thinks on you now! 

Heigh-ho! daisies and buttercups, 

Fair yellow daffodils, stately and tall— 



















A QUAKER WEDDING 

“With all the meeting looking on, 

I held his hand in mine .”—Page 23. 




POETRY OF HOME AND THE FIRESIDE. 


21 


A sunshiny world full of laughter and 
leisure, 

And fresh hearts unconscious of sorrow 
and thrall! 

Send down on their pleasure smiles passing 
its measure, 

God that is over us all! 

SEVEN TIMES FIVE. 
WIDOWHOOD. 

I sleep and rest, my heart makes moan 
Before I am well awake; 

“ Let me bleed! oh let me alone, 

Since I must not break !” 

For children wake, though fathers sleep 
With a stone at foot and at head ; 

O sleepless God, for ever keep, 

Keep both living and dead ! 

1 lift mine eyes, and what to see 
But a world happy and fair? 

I have not wish’d it to mourn with me— 
Comfort is not there. 

Oh, what anear but golden brooms, 

And a waste of reedy rills! 
jOh, what afar but the fine glooms 
On the rare blue hills! 

I shall not die, but live forlorn; 

How bitter it is to part! 

Oh, to meet thee, my love, once more! 

Oh, my heart, my heart! 

No more to hear, no more to see; 

Oh, that an echo might wake, 

And waft one note of thy psalm to me 
Ere my heart-strings break! 

I should know it how faint soe’er, 

And with angel-voices blent; 

Oh, once to feel thy spirit anear, 

I could be content! 

Or once between the gates of gold, 

While an angel entering trod, 

But once—thee sitting to behold 
On the hills of God! 

SEVEN TIMES SIX. 

GIVING IN MARRIAGE. 

To bear, to nurse, to rear, 

To watch, and then to lose: 

To see my bright ones disappear, 

Drawn up like morning dews; 


To bear, to nurse, to rear, 

To watch, and then to lose: 

This have I done when God drew near 
Among his own to choose. 

To hear, to heed, to wed, 

And with thy Lord depart 
In tears that he, as soon as shed, 

Will let no longer smart; 

To hear, to heed, to wed, 

This while thou didst I smiled, 

For now it was not God who said, 

“ Mother, give ME thy child.” 

Oh, fond, oh, fool, and blind, 

To God I gave with tears; 

But when a man like grace would find, 
My soul put by her fears. 

Oh, fond, oh, fool, and blind, 

God guards in happier spheres; 

That man will guard where he did bind 
Is hope for unknown years. 

To hear, to heed, to wed, 

Fair lot that maidens choose, 

Thy mother’s tenderest words are said, 
Thy face no more she views; 

Thy mother’s lot, my dear, 

She doth in naught accuse; 

Her lot to bear, to nurse, to rear, 

To love,—and then to lose. 

SEVEN TIMES SEVEN. 

LONGING FOR HOME. 

A song of a boat:— 

There was once a boat on a billow: 
Lightly she rock’d to her port remote, 
And the foam was white in her wake like 
snow, 

And her frail mast bow’d when the breeze 
would blow, 

And bent like a wand of willow. 

I shaded mine eyes one day when a boat 
Went curtseying over the billow, 

I mark’d her course till a dancing mote 
She faded out on the moonlit foam, 

And I stay’d behind in the dear loved home; 
And my thoughts all day were about the 
boat 

And my dreams upon the pillow. 








FIRESIDE ENCYCLOPAEDIA OF POETRY. 


[ pray you hear my song of a boat, 

For it is but short:— 

My boat, you shall find none fairer afloat, 
In river or port. 

Long I look’d out for the lad she bore, 

On the open desolate sea, 

And I think he sail’d to the heavenly 
shore, 

For he came not back to me— 

Ah me! 

A song of a nest:— 

There was once a nest in a hollow: 
Down in the mosses and knot-grass press’d, 
Soft and warm, and full to the brim. 
Vetches lean’d over it purple and dim, 
With buttercup buds to follow. 

[ pray you hear my song of a nest, 

For it is not long:— 

You shall never light, in a summer quest, 
The bushes among— 
shall never light on a prouder sitter, 

A fairer nestful, nor ever know 
A softer sound than their tender twitter, 
That wind-like did come and go. 

I had a nestful once of my own, 

Ah happy, happy I! 

Right dearly I loved them: but when they 
were grown 

They spread out their wings to fly. 

Oh, one after one they flew away 
Far up to the heavenly blue, 

To the better country, the upper day, 

And—I wish I was going too. 

I pray you, what is the nest to me, 

My empty nest? 

And what is the shore where I stood to see 
My boat sail down to the west? 

Can I call that home where I anchor 
yet, 

Though my good man has sail’d ? 

Can I call that home where my nest was 
set, 

Now all its hope hath fail’d ? 

Nay, but the port where my sailor went, 
And the land where my nestlings be,— 
There is the home where my thoughts 
are sent, 

The only home for me— 

Ah me! 

Jean Ingelow. 


The Quaker Widow. 

Thee finds me in the garden, Hannah,— 
come in! ’Tis kind of thee 
To wait until the Friends were gone, who 
came to comfort me. 

The still and quiet company a peace may 
give, indeed, 

But blessed is the single heart that comes 
to us at need. 

Come, sit thee down ! Here is the bench 
where Benjamin would sit 
On the First-day afternoons in spring, and 
watch the swallows flit; 

He loved to smell the sprouting box, and 
hear the pleasant bees 
Go humming round the lilacs and through 
the apple trees. 

1 think he loved the spring: not that he 
cared for flowers; most men 
Think such things foolishness,—but we 
were first acquainted then, 

One spring: the next he spoke his mind ; 

the third I was his wife, 

And in the spring (it happen’d so) our 
children enter’d life. 

He was but seventy-five: I did not think 
to lay him yet 

In Kennett graveyard, where at Monthly 
Meeting first we met. 

The Father’s mercy shows in this: ’tis 
better I should be 

Pick’d out to bear the heavy cross—alone 
in age—than he. 

We’ve lived together fifty years: it seems 
but one long day, 

One quiet Sabbath of the heart, till he was 
call’d away; 

And as we bring from Meeting-time a 
sweet contentment home, 

So, Hannah, I have store of peace for all 
the days to come. 

I mind (for I can tell thee now) how hard 
it was to know 

If I had heard the Spirit right, that told 
me I should go; 





POETRY OF HOME AND THE FIRESIDE. 


For father had a deep concern upon his 
mind that day, 

But mother spoke for Benjamin,—she knew 
what best to say. 

Then she was still: they sat a while: at last 
she spoke again, 

“ The Lord incline thee to the right!” and 
“Thou shalt have him, Jane!” 

My father said. I cried. Indeed, ’twas 
not the least of shocks, 

For Benjamin was Hicksite, and father 
Orthodox. 

I thought of this ten years ago, when 
daughter Ruth we lost: 

Her husband’s of the world, and yet I 
could not see her cross’d. 

She wears, thee knows, the gayest gowns, 
she hears a hireling priest— 

Ah, dear! the cross was ours: her life’s a 
happy one, at least. 

Perhaps she’ll wear a plainer dress when 
she’s as old as I,— 

Would thee believe it, Hannah? once J 
felt temptation nigh! 

My wedding-gown was ashen silk, too 
simple for my taste: 

I wanted lace around the neck, and a rib¬ 
bon at the waist. 

How strange it seem’d to sit with him 
upon the women’s side! 

I did not dare to lift my eyes : I felt more 
fear than pride, 

Till, “ in the presence of the Lord,” he j 
said, and then there came 

A holy strength upon my heart, and I 
could say the same. 

I used to blush when he came near, but 
then I show’d no sign; 

With all the meeting looking on, I held 
his hand in mine. 

It seem’d my bashfulness was gone, now I 
was his for life: 

Thee knows the feeling, Hannah,—thee, 
too, hast been a wife. 

As home we rode, I saw no fields look 
half so green as ours; 

The woods were coming into leaf, the 
meadows full of flowers; 


zo 


The neighbors met us in the lane, and 
every face was kind,— 

’Tis strange how lively everything comes 
back upon my mind. 

I see, as plain as thee sits there, the wed¬ 
ding-dinner spread: 

At our own table we were guests, with 
father at the head, 

And Dinah Passmore help’d us both— 
’twas she stood up with me, 

And Abner Jones with Benjamin,—and 
now they’re gone, all three! 

It is not right to wish for death; the Lord 
disposes best. 

His Spirit comes to quiet hearts, and fits 
them for His rest; 

And that He halved our little flock was 
merciful, I see: 

For Benjamin has two in heaven, and two 
are left with me. 

Eusebius never cared to farm,—’twas not 
his call, in truth, 

And I must rent the dear old place, and 
go to daughter Ruth. 

Thee’ll say her ways are not like mine,— 
young people now-a-days 

Have fallen sadly off, I think, from all the 
good old ways. 

But Ruth is still a Friend at heart; she 
keeps the simple tongue, 

The cheerful, kindly nature we loved when 
she was young; 

And it was brought upon my mind, remem¬ 
bering her, of late, 

That we on dress and outward things per¬ 
haps lay too much weight. 

I once heard Jesse Kersey say, a spirit 
clothed with grace, 

And pure, almost, as angels are, may have 
a homely face. 

And dress may be of less account: ■‘he 
Lord will look within: 

The soul it is that testifies of righteousness 
or sin. 

Thee mustn’t be too hard on Ruth.' she’s 
anxious I should go, 

And she will do her duty as a daughter 
should, I know. 











24 


FIRESIDE ENCYCLOPAEDIA OF POETRY. 


'Tis hard to change so late in life, but we 
must be resign’d: 

The Lord looks down contentedly upon a 
willing mind. 

Bayard Taylor. 


My Old Kentucky Home. 

The sun shines bright in our old Kentucky 
home; 

’Tis summer, the darkeys are gay; 

The corn top’s ripe and the meadows in 
the bloom, 

While the birds make music all the day; 

The young folks roll on the little cabin 
floor, 

All merry, all happy, all bright; 

By’m by hard times comes a-knockin’ at 
the door,- 

Then, my old Kentucky home, good¬ 
night ! 

Weep no more, my lady; O, weep no more 
to-day! 

We’ll sing one song for the old Kentucky 
home, 

For our old Kentucky home far away. 

They hunt no more for the possum and the 
coon 

On the meadow, the hill, and the shore; 

They sing no more by the glimmer of the 
moon 

On the bench by the old cabin door; 

The day goes by, like a shadow o’er the 
heart, 

With sorrow where all was delight; 

The time has come, when the darkeys have 
to part, 

Then my old Kentucky home, good¬ 
night ! 

Weep no more, my lady; O, weep no more 
to-day! 

We’ll sing one song for the old Kentucky 
home, 

For our old Kentucky home far away. 

The head must bow, and the back will 
have to bend, 

Wherever the darkey may go ; 

A few more days, and the troubles all will 
end, 

In the field where the sugar-canes grow ; 


A few more days to tote the weary load, 
No matter, it will never be light; 

A few more days till we totter on the road, 
Then, my old Kentucky home, good¬ 
night ! 

Weep no more, my lady; O, weep no more 
to-day! 

We’ll sing one song for the old Kentucky 
home, 

For our old Kentucky home far away. 

Stephen Collins Foster. 

The Household woman. 

Graceful may seem the fairy form, 

With youth, and health, and beauty warm, 
Gliding along the airy dance, 

Imparting joy at every glance. 

And lovely, too, when o’er the strings 
Her hand of music woman flings, 

While dewy eyes are upward thrown, 

As if from heaven to claim the tone. 

And fair is she when mental flowers 
Engage her soul’s devoted powers, 

And wreaths, unfading wreaths of mind, 
Around her temples are entwined. 

But never, in her varied sphere, 

Is woman to the heart more dear 
Than when her homely task she plies, 
With cheerful duty in her eyes; 

And, every lowly path well trod, 

Looks meekly upward to her God. 

Caroline Gilman. 

Lemuel's Song. 

Who finds a woman good and wise, 

A gem more worth than pearls hath got; 
Her husband’s heart on her relies; 

To live by spoil he needeth not. 

His comfort all his life is she; 

No wrong she willingly will do; 

For wool and flax her searches be, 

And cheerful hands she puts thereto. 

The merchant-ship, resembling right, 

Her food she from afar doth fet. 

Ere day she wakes, that give she might 
Her maids their task, her household me^v, 
A field she views, and that she buys; 

Her hand doth plant a vineyard there; 






POETRY OF HOME AND THE FIRESIDE. 


25 


Her loins with courage up she ties; 

Her arms with vigor strengthened are. 

If in her work she profit feel, 

By night her candle goes not out: 

She puts her finger to the wheel, 

Her hand the spindle turns about. 

To such as poor and needy are 

Her hand (yea, both hands) reacheth she. 
The winter none of hers doth fear, 

For double clothed her household be. 
She mantles maketh, wrought by hand, 
And silk and purple clothing gets. 
Among the rulers of the land 

(Known in the gate) her husband sits. 
For sale fine linen weaveth she, 

And girdles to the merchant sends. 
Renown and strength her clothing be, 

And joy her later time attends. 

She speaks discreetly when she talks; 

The law of grace her tongue hath learned; 
She heeds the way her household walks, 
And feedeth not on bread unearned. 

Her children rise, and blest her call; 

Her husband thus applaudeth her, 

“ Oh, thou hast far surpassed them all, 
Though many daughters thriving are !” 

Deceitful favor quickly wears, 

And beauty suddenly decays ; 

But, if the Lord she truly fears, 

That woman well deserveth praise, 

The fruit her handiwork obtains : 

Without repining grant her that, 

And yield her when her labor gains, 

To do her honor in the gate. 

George Wither. 

The Sailor’s Wife. 

Part I. 

I’ve a letter from thy sire, 

Baby mine, baby mine; 

I can read and never tire, 

Baby mine. 

He is sailing o’er the sea, 

He is coming back to thee, 

He is coming home to me, 

Baby mine. 

He’s been parted from us long, 

Baby mine, baby mine; 


But if hearts be true and strong, 

Baby mine, 

They shall brave Misfortune’s blast, 
And be overpaid at last 
For all pain and sorrow pass’d, 
Baby mine. 

Oh, I long to see his face, 

Baby mine, baby mine, 

In his old-accustom’d place, 

Baby mine. 

Like the rose of May in bloom. 
Like a star amid the gloom, 

Like the sunshine in the room, 
Baby mine. 

Thou wilt see him and rejoice, 

Baby mine, baby mine; 

Thou wilt know him by his voice, 
Baby mine, 

By his love-looks that endear, 

By his laughter ringing clear, 

By his eyes that know not fear. 
Baby mine. 

I’m so glad—I cannot sleep, 

Baby mine, baby mine. 

I’m so happy—I could weep, 

Baby mine. 

He is sailing o’er the sea, 

He is coming home to me, 

He is coming back to thee, 

Baby mine. 

Part II. 

O’er the blue ocean gleaming 
She sees a distant ship, 

As small to view' 

As the w'hite sea-mew 
Whose wfings in the billow's dip. 

“ Blow, favoring gales, in her answering 
sails, 

Blow steadily and free! 

Rejoicing, strong, 

Singing a song 

Her rigging and her spars among, 

And waft the vessel in pride along 
That bears my love to me.” 

Nearer, still nearer driving, 

The white sails grow' and swell ; 

Clear to her eyes 
The pennant flies, 

And the flag she knows so well. 





•26 


FIRESIDE ENCYCLOPAEDIA OF POETRY. 


“ Blow, favoring gales, in her answering 
sails. 

Waft him, 0 gentle sea! 

And still, 0 heart, 

Thy fluttering start! 

Why throb and beat as thou wouldst 
part, 

When all so happy and bless’d thou 
art? 

He comes again to thee!” 

The swift ship drops her anchor, 

A boat puts off for shore; 

Against its prow 
The ripples flow 
To the music of the oar. 

“ And art thou here, mine own, my dear, 

Safe from the perilous sea? 

Safe, safe at home, 

No more to roam ! 

Blow, tempests, blow; my love has 
come! 

And sprinkle the clouds with your 
dashing foam! 

He shall part no more from me.” 

Charles Mackay. 

Mother and Poet. 

Dead ! One of them shot by the sea in 
the East, 

And one of them shot in the West by 
the sea. 

Dead! both my boys! When you sit at 
the feast 

And are wanting a great song for Italy 
free, 

Let none look at me! 

Yet I was a poetess only last year, 

And good at my art, for a woman, men 
said; 

But this woman, — this, who is agonized 
here,— 

The east sea and the west sea rhyme on 
in her head 
For ever instead. 

What art can a woman be good at? Oh, 
vain! 

What art is she good at, but hurting her 
breast 

With the milk-teeth of babes, and a smile 
at the pain? 


Ah, boys, how you hurt! You were 
strong as you pressed, 

And I proud by that test. 

What art’s for a woman? To hold on her 
knees 

Both darlings! to feel all their arms 
round her throat, 

Cling, strangle a little! to sew by de* 
grees 

And ’broider the long clothes and neat 
little coat; 

To dream and to dote. 

To teach them.—It stings there! I made 
them, indeed, 

Speak plain the word country. I taught 
them, no doubt, 

That a country’s a thing men should die 
for at need. 

I prated of liberty, rights, and about 

The tyrant cast out. 

And when their eyes flashed, — oh, my 
beautiful eyes!— 

I exulted; nay, let them go forth at the 
wheels 

Of the guns, and denied not. But, then, 
the surprise 

When one sits quite alone! Then one 
weeps, then one kneels! 

God, how the house feels! 

At first, happy news came, in gay letters 
mailed 

With my kisses,—of camp-life and glory, 
and how 

They both loved me; and, soon coming 
home to be spoiled, 

In return would fan off every fly from 
my brow 

With their green laurel-bough. 

Then was triumph at Turin: “Ancona was 
free!” 

And some one came out of the cheers in 
the street, 

With a face pale as stone, to say something 
to me. 

My Guido was dead! I fell down at his 
feet, 

While they cheered in the street. 







POEMS OF HOME AND THE FIRESIDE. 


27 


[ bore it; friends soothed me; my grief 
looked sublime 

As the ransom of Italy. One boy re¬ 
mained 

To be leant on and walked with, recalling 
the time 

When the first grew immortal, while both 
of us strained 

To the height he had gained. 

And letters still came, shorter, sadder, more 
strong, 

Writ now but in one hand, “ I was not to 
faint,— 

One loved me for two—would be with me 
ere long: 

And viva VItalia! — he died for, our 
saint, 

Who forbids our complaint.” 

My Nanni would add, “he was safe, and 
aware 

Of a presence that turned off the balls,— 
was imprest, 

it was Guido himself, who knew what I 
could bear, 

And how ’twas impossible, quite dispos¬ 
sessed, 

To live on for the rest.” 

On which, without pause, up the telegraph- 
line 

Swept smoothly the next news from Gae- 
ta :— Shot; 

Tell Ills mother. Ah, ah, “his,” “their” 
mother,—not “mine,” 

No voice says, “My mother ,” again to 
me. What! 

You think Guido forgot? 

Are souls straight so happy that, dizzy 
with Heaven, 

They drop earth’s affections, conceive 
not of woe? 

I think not. Themselves were too lately 
forgiven 

Through that love and sorrow which rec¬ 
onciled so 

The Above and Below. 

O Christ of the seven wounds, who look’dst 
through the dark 


To the face of Thy mother! consider, I 
pray, 

How we common mothers stand desolate, 
mark, 

Whose sons, not being Christs, die with 
eyes turned away, 

And no last word to say! 

Both boys dead? but that’s out of nature, 
We all 

Have been patriots, yet each house must 
always keep one. 

’Twere imbecile, hewing out roads to a 
wall; 

And, when Italy’s made, for what end is 
it done 

If we have not a son? 

Ah, ah, ah! when Gaeta’s taken, what 
then? 

When the fair wicked queen sits no more 
at her sport 

Of the fire-balls of death crashing souls out 
of men? 

When the guns of Cavalli, with final re¬ 
tort, 

Have cut the game short? 

When Venice and Rome keep their new 
jubilee, 

When your flag takes all heaven for its 
white, green and red, 

When you have your country from moun¬ 
tain to sea, 

When King Victor has Italy’s crown on 
his head 

(And I have my Dead)— 

What then? Do not mock me. Ah, ring 
your bells low, 

And burn your lights faintly! My coun¬ 
try is there , 

Above the star pricked by the last peak of 
snow: 

My Italy’s there, with my brave civic 
Pair, 

To disfranchise despair! 

Forgive me. Some women bear children 
in strength, 

And bite back the cry of their pain in 
self-scorn; 






28 


FIRESIDE ENCYCLOPAEDIA OF POETRY. 


But the birth-pangs of nations will wring 
us at length 

Into wail such as this—and we sit on for¬ 
lorn 

When the man-child is born. 

Dead! One of them shot by the sea in the 
East, 

And one of them shot in the West by the 
sea. 

Both! both my boys! If in keeping the 
feast 

You want a great song for your Italy 
free, 

Let none look at me! 

Elizabeth Barrett Browning. 

The Graves of a Household. 

They grew in beauty, side by side, 

They fill’d one home with glee ;— 

Their graves are sever’d, far and wide, 

By mount, and stream, and sea. 

The same fond mother bent at night 
O’er each fair sleeping brow; 

She had each folded flower in sight— 
Where are those dreamers now ? 

One, ’midst the forests of the West 
By a dark stream is laid— 

The Indian knows his place of rest 
Far in the cedar shade. 

The sea, the blue lone sea, hath one— 

He lies where pearls lie deep ; 

He was the loved of all, yet none 
O’er his low bed may weep. 

One sleeps where southern vines are drest 
Above the noble slain : 

He wrapt his colors round his breast 
On a blood-red field of Spain. 


And one—o’er her the myrtle showers 
Its leaves, by soft winds fann’d ; 

She faded midst Italian flowers— 

The last of that bright band. 

And parted thus they rest, who play’d 
Beneath the same green tree; 

Whose voices mingled as they pray’d 
Around one parent knee ! 

They that with smiles lit up the hath 
And cheer’d with song the hearth !— 
Alas! for love, if thoii wert all, 

And naught beyond, O earth ! 

Felicia Dorothea Hemans. 

When She Cosies Home Again. 

When she comes home again : a thousand 
ways 

I fashion, to myself, the tenderness 
Of my glad welcome. I shall tremble— 
yes; 

And touch her, as when first in the old 
days 

I touched her girlish hand, nor dared up¬ 
raise 

Mine eyes, such was my faint heart’s sweet 
distress. 

Then silence: and the perfume of her 
dress; 

The room will sway a little, and a haze 
Cloy eyesight—soulsight even—for a space; 
And tears—yes; and the ache here in the 
throat, 

To know that I so ill deserve the place 
Her arms make for me; and the sobbing 
note 

I stay with kisses, ere the tearful face 
Again is hidden in the old embrace. 

James Whitcomb Riley. 






WILLIAM SHAKESPEARE 

Prom a valuable painting in the possession of the Duke of Buckingham. 




































It is said that Queen Elizabeth commanded the great poet to read to her passages from his plays 
and verses. The picture represents a dramatic moment in one of these recitals. 









Poetry 


OF 

Infancy and Childhood. 


Baby May. 

Cheeks as soft as July peaches; 

Lips whose velvet scarlet teaches 
Poppies paleness; round large eyes 
Ever great with new surprise; 

Minutes filled with shadeless gladness; 
Minutes just as brimm’d with sadness; 
Happy smiles and wailing cries, 

Crows and laughs and tearful eyes, 
Lights and shadows, swifter born 
Than on windswept autumn corn ; 

Ever some new tiny notiou, 

Making every limb all motion, 
Catchings up of legs and arms, 
Throwings back and small alarms, 
Clutching fingers—straightening jerks, 
Twining feet whose each toe works, 
Kickings up and straining risings, 
Mother’s ever-new surprisings; 

Hands all wants, and looks all wonder 
At all things the heavens under ; 

Tiny scorns of smiled reprovings 
That have more of love than lovings; 
Mischiefs done with such a winning 
Archness that we prize such sinning; 
Breakings dire of plates and glasses, 
Graspings small at all that passes; 
Pullings off of all that’s able 
To be caught from tray or table; 
Silences—small meditations 
Deep as thoughts of cares for nations— 
Breaking into wisest speeches 
In a tongue that nothing teaches, 

All the thoughts of whose possessing 
Must be woo’d to light by guessing; 
Slumbers—such sweet angel-seemings 
That we’d ever have such dreamings, 
Till from sleep we see thee breaking, 


And we’d always have thee waking; 
Wealth for which we know no measure, 
Pleasure high above all pleasure, 
Gladness brimming over gladness, 

Joy in care—delight in sadness, 
Loveliness beyond completeness, 
Sweetness distancing all sweetness, 
Beauty all that beauty may be, 

That’s May Bennett; that’s my baby. 

W. C. Bennett. 

My Bird. 

Ere last year’s moon had left the sky, 

A birdling sought my Indian nest, 

And folded, oh, so lovingly, 

Her tiny wings upon my breast. 

From morn till evening’s purple tinge, 
In winsome helplessness she lies; 

Two rose-leaves, with a silken fringe, 
Shut softly on her starry eyes. 

There’s not in Ind a lovelier bird; 
Broad earth owns not a happier nest; 

O God, thou hast a fountain stirred, 
Whose waters never more shall rest! 

This beautiful, mysterious thing, 

• This seeming visitant from heaven, 

This bird with the immortal wing, 

To me, to me, thy hand has given. 

The pulse first caught its tiny stroke, 
The blood its crimson hue from mine 

This life, which I have dared invoke, 
Henceforth is parallel with thine. 

A silent awe is in my room— 

I tremble with delicious fear; 

The future, with it* light and gloom, 
Time and Eternity's here. 

29 




FIRESIDE ENCYCLOPEDIA OF POETR Y. 


30 


Doubts, hopes, in eager tumult rise; 

Hear, 0 my God, one earnest prayer! 
Room for my bird in Paradise ; 

And give her angel plumage there! 

Emily Chubbock Judson. 


Philip my King. 

“ Who bears upon his baby brow the round 
And top of sovereignty.” 

Look at me with thy large brown eyes, 
Philip, my king! 

Round whom the enshadowing purple lies 
Of babyhood’s royal dignities: 

Lay on my neck thy tiny hand, 

With Love’s invisible sceptre laden; 

I am thine Esther to command 
Till thou shalt find a queen-hand¬ 
maiden, 

Philip, my king! 

Oh, the day when thou goest a-wooing, 
Philip, my king! 

When those beautiful lips ’gin suing, 

And, some gentle heart’s bars undoing, 
Thou dost enter, love-crown’d, and there 
Sittest, love-glorified!—Rule kindly, 
Tenderly, over thy kingdom fair ; 

For we that love, ah! we love so blindly, 
Philip, my king! 

Up from thy sweet mouth up to thy brow, 
Philip, my king! 

The spirit that there lies sleeping now 
May rise like a giant, and make men bow 
As to one heaven-chosen amongst his peers. 
My Saul, than thy brethren taller and 
fairer 

Let me behold thee in future years! 

Yet thy head needeth a circlet rarer, 
Philip, my king— 

A wreath, not of gold, but palm. One day, 
Philip, my king! 

Thou, too, must tread, as we trod, a way 
Thorny, and cruel, and cold, and gray; . 

Rebels within thee and foes without 

Will snatch at thy crown. But march 
on, glorious, 

Martyr, yet monarch ! till angels shout, 

As thou sitt’st at the feet of God vic¬ 
torious, 

“ Philip, the king!” 

Dinau Mulock Craik. 


Baby Bell. 

Have you not heard the poets tell 
How came the dainty Baby Bell 
Into this world of ours ? 

The gates of heaven were left ajar: 

With folded hands and dreamy eyes, 
Wandering out of Paradise, 

She saw this planet, like a star, 

Hung in the glistening depths of 
even,— 

Its bridges, running to and fro, 

O’er which the white-wing’d angels go, 
Bearing the holy dead to heaven. 

She touch’d a bridge of flowers,—those 
feet, 

So light they did not bend the bells 
Of the celestial asphodels, 

They fell like dew upon the flowers : 

Then all the air grew strangely sweet! 

And thus came dainty Baby Bell 
Into this world of ours. 

She came, and brought delicious May. 

The swallows built beneath the eaves; 
Like sunlight, in and out the leaves 
The robins went the livelong day; 

The lily swung its noiseless bell; 

And o’er the porch the trembling vine 
Seem’d bursting with its veins of wine. 
How sweetly, softly, twilight fell! 

J Oh, earth was full of singing-birds 
And opening spring-tide flowers, 

When the dainty Baby Bell 
Came to this world of ours! 

Oh, Baby, dainty Baby Bell, 

How fair she grew from day to day! 

What woman-nature fill’d her eyes, 

What poetry within them lay ! 

Those deep and tender twilight eyes, 

So full of meaning, pure and bright 
As if she yet stood in the light 
Of those oped gates of Paradise. 

| And so we loved her more and more: 

\ Ah, never in our hearts before 
Was love so lovely born; 

We felt we had a link between 
This real world and that unseen— 

The land beyond the morn ; 

And for the love of those dear eyes, 

For love of her whom God led forth, 

(The mother’s being ceased on earth 
When Baby came from Paradise),— 









POETRY OF INFANCY AN1) CHILDHOOD. 


3: 


For love of Him who smote our lives, 

And woke the chords of joy and pain, 
We said, Dear Christ !—our hearts bent 
down 

Like violets after rain. 

And now the orchards, which were white 
And red with blossoms when she came, 
Were rich in autumn’s mellow prime ; 

The cluster’d apples burnt like flame, 

The soft-cheek’d peaches blush’d and fell, 
The ivory chestnut burst its shell, 

The grapes hung purpling in the grange; 
And time wrought just as rich a change 
In little Baby Bell. 

Her lissome form more perfect grew, 

And in her features we could trace, 

In soften’d curves, her mother’s face. 
Her angel-nature ripen’d too: 

We thought her lovely when she came, 
But she was holy, saintly now:— 

Around her pale angelic brow 
W e saw a slender ring of flame! 

God’s hand had taken away the seal 

That held the portals of her speech; 
And oft she said a few strange words 

Whose meaning lay beyond our reach. 
She never was a child to us, 

We never held her being’s key ; 

We could not teach her holy things: 

She was Christ’s self in purity. 

It came upon us by degrees, 

We saw its shadow ere it fell,— 

The knowledge that our God had sent 
His messenger for Baby Bell. 

We shudder’d w r ith unlanguaged pain, 
And all our hopes were changed to fears, 
And all our thoughts ran into tears 
Like sunshine into rain. 

We cried aloud in our belief, 

“ Oh, smite us gently, gently, God! 

Teach us to bend and kiss the rod, 

And perfect grow' through grief.” 

Ah, how we loved her, God can tell ; 

Her heart was folded deep in ours. 

Our hearts are broken, Baby Bell! 

At last he came, the messenger, 

The messenger from unseen lands : 
And what did dainty Baby Bell ? 

She only cross’d her little hands, 


She only look’d more meek and fair! 

We parted back her silken hair, 

We wove the roses round her brow,— 
White buds, the summer’s drifted snow%— 
Wrapt her from head to foot in flowers! 
And thus went dainty Baby Bell 
Out of this world of ours! 

Thomas Bailey Aldrich. 

Where did you Come from? 

Where did you come from, baby dear? 
Out of the everywhere into here. 

Where did get your eyes so blue ? 

Out of the sky as I came through. 

What makes the light in them sparkle anc 
spin ? 

Some of the starry spikes left in. 

Where did you get that little tear ? 

I found it waiting when I got here. 

What makes your forehead so smooth anc 
high ? 

A soft hand stroked it as I went by. 

What makes your cheek like a warn 
white rose ? 

I saw something better than any one 
knows. 

Whence that three-corner’d smile of bliss ? 
Three angels gave me at once a kiss. 

Where did you get this pearly ear ? 

God spoke, and it came out to hear. 

Where did you get those arms and hands' 
Love made itself into hooks and bands. 

Feet, whence did you come, you darling 
things ? 

From the same box as the cherubs’ wings. 

How did they all come just to be you ? 
God thought of me, and so I grew. 

But how did you come to us, you dear? 
God thought of you, and so I am here. 

George Macdonald. 

“ Sweet and low.” 

Sweet and low, sweet and low, 

Wind of the western sea, 

Low, low, breathe and blow, 

Wind of the western sea! 





32 


FIRESIDE ENCYCLOPAEDIA OF POETRY. 


Over the rolling waters go, 

Come from the dying moon, and blow, 
Blow him again to me, 

While my little one, while my pretty one, 
sleeps. 

Sleep and rest, sleep and rest, 

Father will come to thee soon ; 

Rest, rest, on mother’s breast, 

Father will come to thee soon ; 
Father will come to his babe in the 
nest, 

Silver sails all out of the west 
Under the silver moon : 

Sleep, my little one, sleep, my pretty one, 
sleep. 

Alfred Tennyson. 

Lullaby. 

Golden slumbers kiss your eyes, 

Smiles awake you when you rise. 

Sleep, pretty wantons; do not cry, 

And I will sing a lullaby: 

Rock them, rock them, lullaby. 

Care is heavy, therefore sleep you; 

You are care, and care must keep you. 
Sleep, pretty wantons; do not cry, 

And I will sing a lullaby: 

Rock them, rock them, lullaby. 

Thomas Dekker. 

Lady Anne Bo til welds Lament. 

Balow, my babe, lye stil and sleipe! 

It grieves me sair to see thee weipe: 

If thou’st be silent, I’se be glad, 

Thy maining maks my heart ful sad. 
Balow, my boy, thy mother’s joy, 

Thy father breides me great annoy. 

Balow, my babe, ly still and sleipe, 

It grieves me sair to see thee weipe. 

Whan he began to court my luve, 

And with his sugred wordes to muve, 

His faynings fals, and flattering cheire 
To me that time did not appeire : 

But now I see, most cruell hee 
Cares neither for my babe nor mee. 

Balow, my babe, ly stil and sleipe, 

It grieves me sair to see thee weipe. 

Ly stil, my darling, sleipe a while, 

And when thou wakest, sweitly smile: 


But smile not, as thy father did, 

To cozen maids : nay, God forbid ! 

Bot yett I feire, thou wilt gae neire 
Thy fatheris hart and face to beire. 

Balow, my babe, ly stil and sleipe, 

It grieves me sair to see thee weipe. 

I cannae chuse, but ever will 
Be luving to thy father stil: 

Whair-eir he gae, whair-eir he ryde, 

My luve with him doth stil abvde: 

In weil or wae, whair-eir he gae, 

Mine hart can neire depart him frae. 
Balow, my babe, ly stil and sleipe, 

It grieves me sair to see thee weipe. 

But doe not, doe not, pretty mine, 

To faynings fals thine hart incline; 

Be loyal to thy luver trew, 

And nevir change her for a new: 

If gude or faire, of hir have care, 

For women’s banning’s wondrous sair. 
Balow, my babe, ly stil and sleipe, 

It grieves me sair to see thee weipe. 

Bairne, sin thy cruel father is gane, 

Thy winsome smiles maun eise my painc, 
My babe and I’ll together live, 

He’ll comfort me when cares doe grieve : 
My babe and I right saft will ly, 

And quite forgeit man’s cruelty. 

Balow, my babe, ly stil and sleipe, 

It grieves me sair to see thee weipe. 

Fareweil, fareweil, thou falsest youth, 
That evir kist a woman’s mouth ! 

I wish all maides be warn’d by mee 
Nevir to trust man’s curtesy; 

For if we doe bot chance to bow, 

They’ll use us than they care not how. 
Balow, my babe, ly stil and sleipe, 

It grieves me sair to see thee weipe. 

Author Unknown. 

Cradle Song. 

[From the German.] 

Sleep, baby, sleep! 

Thy father’s watching the sheep, 

Thy mother’s shaking the dreamland tree, 
And down drops a little dream for thee, 
Sleep, baby, sleep! 

Sleep, baby, sleep! 

The large stars are the sheep. 








POETRY OF INFANCY AND CHILDHOOD. 


33 


The little stars are the lambs, I guess, 

I he bright moon is the shepherdess. 
Sleep, baby, sleep. 

Sleep, baby, sleep! 

And cry not like a sheep. 

Else the sheep-dog will bark and whine, 
And bite this naughty child of mine. 
Sleep, baby, sleep! 

Sleep, baby, sleep! 

Thy Saviour loves His sheep ; 
lie is the Lamb of God on high 
Who for our sakes came down to die. 
Sleep, baby, sleep! 

Sleep, baby, sleep! 

A way to tend the sheep, 

Away, thou sheep-dog fierce and wild, 
And do not harm my sleeping child ! 
Sleep, baby, sleep! 

Elizabeth Prentiss. 


The Angels* Whisper. 

A baby was sleeping; 

Its mother was weeping; 

For her husband was far on the wild raging 
sea; 

And the tempest was swelling 
Round the fisherman’s dwelling ; 
And she cried, “ Dermot, darling, oh come 
back to me!” 

Her beads while she number’d, 

The baby still slumber’d, 

And smiled in her face as she bended her 
knee: 

“ Oh, blest be that warning, 

My child, thy sleep adorning, 

For I know that the angels are whispering 
with thee! 

“ And while they are keeping 
Bright watch o’er thy sleeping, 

Oh, pray to them softly, my baby, with me! 
And say thou wouldst rather 
They’d watch o’er thy father! 

For I know that the angels are whispering 
to thee.” 

The dawn of the morning 
Saw Dermot returning, 

3 


| And the wife wept with joy her babe’s 
father to see; 

And closely caressing 
Her child with a blessing, 

Said, “ I knew that the angels were whis¬ 
pering with thee.” 

Samuel Lover. 

The Child and the Watcher. 

Sleep on, baby on the floor, 

Tired of all thv playing— 

Sleep with smile the sweeter for 
That you dropped away in ; 

On your curls, fair roundness stand 
Golden lights serenely; 

One cheek, push’d out by the hand. 
Folds the dimple inly— 

Little head and little foot 
Heavy laid for pleasure ; 

Underneath the lids half-shut 
Plants the shining azure ; 

Open-soul’d in noonday sun, 

So, you lie and slumber; 

Nothing evil having done, 

Nothing can encumber. 

I, who cannot sleep as well, 

Shall I sigh to view you ? 

Or sigh further to foretell 
All that may undo you ? 

Nay, keep smiling, little child, 

Ere the fate appeareth ! 

I smile too; for patience mild 
Pleasure’s token weareth. 

Nay, keep sleeping before loss; 

I shall sleep, though losing! 

As by cradle, so by cross, 

Sweet is the reposing. 

And God knows, who sees us twain. 
Child at childish leisure, 

I am all as tired of pain 
As you are of pleasure. 

Very soon, too, by His grace, 

Gently wrapt around me, 

I shall show as calm a face, 

I shall sleep as soundly— 

Differing in this, that you 

Clasp your playthings sleeping, 

While my hand must drop the few 
Given to my keeping— 

Differing in this, that I, 

Sleeping, must be colder, 







34 


FIRESIDE ENCYCLOPAEDIA OF POETRY. 


And, in waking presently, 

Brighter to beholder— 

Differing in this, beside 
(Sleeper, have you heard me? 

Do you move and open wide 
Your great eyes toward me?), 

That while I you draw withal 
From this slumber solely, 

Me, from mine, an angel shall, 
Trumpet-tongued and holy! 

Elizabeth Barrett Browning. 

Sweet Baby, Sleep. 

Sweet baby, sleep ! what ails my dear? 

What ails my darling, thus to cry ? 

Be still, my child, and lend thine ear, 

To hear me sing thy lullaby. 

My pretty lamb, forbear to weep ; 

Be still, my dear ; sweet baby, sleep. 

Thou blessed soul, what canst thou fear? 

What thing to thee can mischief do ? 
Thy God is now thy Father dear, 

His holy Spouse thy mother too. 

Sweet baby, then forbear to weep ; 

Be still, my babe ; sweet baby, sleep. 

Though thy conception was in sin, 

A sacred bathing thou hast had ; 

And though thy birth unclean hath been, 
A blameless babe thou now art made. 
Sweet baby, then forbear to weep ; 

Be still, my dear ; sweet baby, sleep. 

While thus thy lullaby I sing, 

For thee great blessings ripening be ; 
Thine eldest brother is a King, 

And hath a kingdom bought for thee. 
Sweet baby, then forbear to weep ; 

Be still, my babe ; sweet baby, sleep. 

Sweet baby, sleep, and nothing fear; 

For whosoever thee offends 
By thy Protector threaten’d are, 

And God and angels are thy friends. 
Sweet baby, then forbear to weep ; 

Be still, my babe ; sweet baby, sleep. 

When God with us was dwelling here, 

In little babes He took delight; 

Sucb innocents as thou, my dear, 

Are ever precious in His sight. 


Sweet baby, then forbear to weep; 

Be still, my babe; sweet baby, sleep. 

A little infant once was He ; 

And strength in weakness then was laid 

Upon His virgin mother’s knee, 

That power to thee might be convey’d. 

Sweet baby, then forbear to weep ; 

Be still, my babe ; sweet baby, sleep. 

In this thy frailty and thy need 
He friends and helpers doth prepare, 

Which thee shall cherish, clothe, and feed, 
For of thy weal they tender are. 

Sweet baby, then forbear to weep ; 

Be still, my babe ; sweet baby, sleep. 

The King of kings, when He was born, 
Had not so much for outward ease; 

By Him such dressings were not worn, 
Nor sucli-like swaddling-clothes as these. 

Sweet baby, then forbear to Aveep ; 

Be still, my babe ; sweet baby, sleep. 

Within a manger lodged thy Lord, 

Where oxen lay and asses fed : 

Warm rooms we do to thee afford, 

An easy cradle or a bed. 

Sweet baby, then forbear to weep ; 

Be still, my babe ; sweet baby, sleep. 

The wants that He did then sustain 

Have purchased wealth, my babe, foi 
thee; 

And by His torments and His pain 
Thy rest and ease secured be. 

My baby, then forbear to weep ; 

Be still, my babe ; sweet baby, sleep. 

Thou hast, yet more to perfect this, 

A promise and an earnest got 

Of gaining everlasting bliss, 

Though thou, my babe, perceiv’st it not; 

Sweet baby, then forbear to weep ; 

Be still, my babe ; sweet baby, sleep. 

George Wither. 


Cradle Hymn. 

Hush, my dear ! Lie still and slumber ! 

Holy angels guard thy bed ! 

Heavenly blessings without number, 
Gently falling on thy head. 








POETRY OF INFANCY AND CHILDHOOD. 


35 


Sleep, my babe ! thy food and raiment, 
House and home, thy friends provide; 
All without thy care or payment, 

All thy wants are well supplied. 

How much better thou’rt attended 
Than the Son of God could be, 

When from heaven He descended, 

And became a child like thee ! 

Soft and easy is thy cradle : 

Coarse and hard thy Saviour lay, 

When His birthplace was a stable 
And His softest bed was hay. 

Blessed Babe ! what glorious features,— 
Spotless fair, divinely bright! 

Must He dwell with brutal creatures? 
How could angels bear the sight ? 

Was there nothing but a manger 
Cursed sinners could afford, 

To receive the heavenly stranger ? 

Did they thus affront the Lord ? 

Soft, my child ! I did not chide thee, 
Though my song might sound too hard : 
’Tis thy mother sits beside thee, 

And her arm shall be thy guard. 

Yet to read the shameful story, 

How the Jews abused their King, 

How they served the Lord of glory, 

Makes me angry while I sing. 

See the kinder shepherds round Him, 
Telling wonders from the sky ! 

Where they sought Him, there they found 
Him, 

With His virgin mother by. 

See the lovely Babe a-dressing ; 

Lovely Infant, how He smiled ! 

When He wept, His mother’s blessing 
Sooth’d and hush’d the holy Child. 

Lo, He slumbers in a manger, 

Where the hornfed oxen fed :— 

Peace, my darling, here’s no danger : 
There’s no ox a-near thy bed. 

’Twas to save thee, child, from dying, 

Save my dear from burning flame, 

Bitter groans and endless crying, 

That thy blest Redeemer came. 


May’st thou live to know and fear Him, 
Trust and love Him all thy days, 
Then go dwell for ever near Him : 

See His face, and sing His praise ! 

I could give thee thousand kisses ! 

Hoping what I most desire, 

Not a mother’s fondest wishes 

Can to greater joys aspire ! 

Isaac Watts. 

To a Child 

Embracing his Mother. 

Love thy mother, little one! 

Kiss and clasp her neck again,— 
Hereafter she may have a son 

Will kiss and clasp her neck in vain. 
Love thy mother, little one ! 

Gaze upon her living eyes, 

And mirror back her love for thee,— 
Hereafter thou may’st shudder sighs 
To meet them when they cannot see. 
Gaze upon her living eyes ! 

Press her lips the while they glow 
With love that they have often told,— 
Hereafter thou may’st press in woe, 

And kiss them till thine own are cold. 
Press her lips the while they glow ! 

Oh, revere her raven hair ! 

Although it be not silver-gray— 

Too early Death, led on by Care, 

May snatch save one dear lock away. 
Oh, revere her raven hair ! 

Pray for her at eve and morn, 

That Heaven may long the stroke defer— 
For thou may’st live the hour forlorn 
When thou W'ilt ask to die w r ith her. 
Pray for her at eve and morn ! 

Thomas Hood, 

To Charlotte Fulteney. 

Timely blossom, infant fair, 
Fondling of a happy pair, 

Every morn and every night 
Their solicitous delight; 

Sleeping, waking, still at ease, 
Pleasing, without skill to please; 
Little gossip, blithe and hale, 
Tattling many a broken tale; 







56 


FIRESIDE ENCYCLOPAEDIA OF POETRY. 


Singing many a tuneless song, 
Lavish of a heedless tongue ; 
Simple maiden, void of art, 
Babbling out the very heart, 

Yet abandon’d to thy will, 

Yet imagining no ill, 

Yet too innocent to blush ; 

Like the linnet in the bush 
To the mother-linnet’s note 
Moduling her slender throat, 
Chirping forth thy petty joys, 
Wanton in the change of toys ; 

Like the linnet green in May 
Flitting to each bloomy spray ; 
Wearied then and glad of rest, 

Like the linnet in the nest;— 

This thy present happy lot 
This, in time will be forgot: 

Other pleasures, other cares, 
Ever-busy Time prepares; 

And thou shalt in thy daughter see 

This picture, once, resembled thee. 

Ambrose Philips. 

To T. L. II. 

Six Years Old, During a Sickness. 

Sleep breathes at last from out thee, 
My little, patient boy; 

And balmy rest about thee 
Smooths off the day’s annoy. 

I sit me down, and think 
Of all thy winning ways; 

Vet almost wish, with sudden shrink, 
That I had less to praise. 

Thy sidelong pillowed meekness, 

Thy thanks to all that aid, 

Thy heart, in pain and weakness, 

Of fancied faults afraid ; 

The little trembling hand 
That wipes thy quiet tears : 

These, these are things that may demand 
Dread memories for years. 

Sorrows I’ve had, severe ones, 

I will not think of now ; 

And calmly, midst my dear ones, 

Have wasted with dry brow; 


But when thy fingers press 
And pat my stooping head, 

I cannot bear the gentleness— 

The tears are in their bed. 

Ah, first-born of thy mother, 

When life and hope were new; 

Kind playmate of thy brother, 

Thy sister, father too; 

My light, where’er I go ; 

My bird, when prison-bound ; 

My hand-in-hand companion—No, 

My prayers shall hold thee round. 

To say “ He has departed ”— 

“His voice”—“his face”—is gone, 
To feel impatient-hearted, 

Yet feel we must bear on— 

Ah, I could not endure 
To whisper of such woe, 

Unless I felt this sleep ensure 
That it will not be so. 

Yes, still he’s fixed, and sleeping! 

This silence too the while— 

Its very hush and creeping 
Seem whispering us a smile; 

Something divine and dim 
Seems going by one’s ear, 

Like parting wings of cherubim, 

Who say, “ We’ve finished here.” 

Leigh Hunx 

Children. 

Children are what the mothers are. 
No fondest father’s fondest care 
Can fashion so the infant heart 
As those creative beams that dart, 
With all their hopes and fears, upon 
The cradle of a sleeping son. 

His startled eyes with wonder see 
A father near him on his knee, 

Who wishes all the while to trace 
The mother in his future face; 

But ’tis to her alone uprise 

His wakening arms; to her those eyes 

Open with joy and not surprise. 

Walter Savage Landor. 







We mourn for thee, when blind, blank night 
The chamber fills.”— Page 40. 















THE OLD ARM-CHAIR 

“ I love it, I love it; and who shall dare 
To chide me for loving that old arm-chair .”—Page 










































































































POETRY OF INFANCY AND CHILDHOOD. 


37 


Castles in the air. 

The 'Donnie, bonnie bairn, wbo sits poking 
in the ase, 

Glowering in the fire with his wee round 
face; 

Laughing at the fufiin’ lowe, what sees he 
there ? 

Ha! the young dreamer’s bigging castles 
in the air. 

His wee chubby face and his touzie curly 
pow, 

Are laughing and nodding to the dancing 
lowe; 

He’ll brown his rosy cheeks, and singe his 
sunny hair, 

Glowering at the imps wi’ their castles in 
the air. 

He sees muckle castles towering to the 
moon! 

He sees little sogers pu’ing them a’ doun ! 

Worlds whombling up and down, bleezing 
wi’ a flare, 

See how he loups! as they glimmer in the 
air. 

For a’sae sage he looks, what can tne iauctie 
ken ? 

He’s thinking upon naething, like mony 
mighty men, 

A wee thing maks us think, a sma’ thing 
maks us stare, 

There are mair folk than him bigging 
castles in the air. 

Sic a night in winter may weel mak him 
cauld: 

His chin upon his buffy hand will soon 
mak him auld; 

His brow is brent sae braid, oh, pray that 
daddy Care 

Would let the wean alane wi’ his castles in 
the air. 

He’ll glower at the fire! and he’ll keek at 
the light! 

But mony sparkling stars are swallow’d up 
by night; 

Aulder een than his are glamour’d by a 
glare, 

Hearts are broken, heads are turn’d, wi’ 
castles in the air. 

Jamks Ballantyne. 


The Little Black Boy. 

My mother bore me in the southern wild, 

And I am black, but, oh, my soul is 
white! 

White as an angel is the English child, 

But I am black, as if bereaved of light. 

My mother taught me underneath a tree ; 

And, sitting down before the heat of 
day, 

She took me on her lap and kissfed me, 

And, pointing to the East, began to say: 

“ Look on the rising sun: there God does 
live, 

And gives his light, and gives his heat 
away, 

And flowers, and trees, and beasts, and men, 
receive 

Comfort in morning, joy in the noon¬ 
day. 

“And we are put on earth a little space, 

That we may learn to bear the beams 
of love ; 

And these black bodies and this sunburnt 
face 

Are but a cloud, and like a shady grove. 

“For, when our souls have learn’d the heat 
to bear, 

The cloud will vanish, we shall heai 
His voice 

Saying: ‘ Come from the grove, my love 
and care, 

And round my golden tent like lambs 
rejoice.’” 

Thus did my mother say, and kissfcd me, 

And thus I say to little English boy. 

When I from black, and he from white 
cloud free, 

And round the tent of God like lambs 
we joy, 

I’ll shade him from the heat, till he can 
bear 

To lean in joy upon our Father’s knee; 

And then I’ll stand and stroke his silver 
hair, 

And be like him, and he will then love 
me. 


William Blake. 







38 


FIRESIDE ENCYCLOPAEDIA OF POETRY. 


Ballad of the Tempest. 

We were crowded in the cabin, 

Not a soul would dare to sleep,— 

It was midnight on the waters, 

And a storm was on the deep. 

’Tis a fearful thing in Winter 
To be shattered in the blast, 

And to hear the rattling trumpet 
Thunder: “Cut away the mast!” 

So we shuddered there in silence,— 

For the stoutest held his breath, 
While the hungry sea was roaring, 

And the breakers talked with Death. 

As thus we sat in darkness, 

Each one busy in his prayers, 

“ We are lost!” the captain shouted 
As he staggered down the stairs. 

But his little daughter whispered, 

As she took his icy hand: 

“ Isn’t God upon the ocean 
Just the same as on the land ?” 

Then we kissed the little maiden, 

And we spoke in better cheer, 

And we anchored safe in harbor 
When the morn was shining clear. 

James T. Fields. 

Little Bell. 

He prayeth well, who loveth well 
Both man and bird and beast. 

Ancient Mariner. 

Piped the blackbird on the beechwood 
spray: 

“ Pretty maid, slow wandering this way, 
What’s your name?” quoth he— 

“ What’s your name ? Oh stop and straight 
unfold, 

Pretty maid with showery curls of gold,”— 
“Little Bell,” said she. 

Little Bell sat down beneath the rocks— 

Tossed aside her gleaming golden locks— 

“ Bonny bird,” quoth she, 

“ Sing me your best song before I go.” 

“ Here’s the very finest song I know, 

Little Bell,” said he. 

And the blackbird piped; you never heard 

Half so gay a song from any bird— 


Full of quips and wiles, 

Now so round and rich, now soft and slow, 
All for love of that sweet face below, 
Dimpled o’er with smiles. 

And the while the bonny bird did pour 
His full heart out freely o’er and o’er 
’Neath the morning skies, 

In the little childish heart below 
All the sweetness seemed to grow and grow, 
And shine forth in happy overflow 
From the blue, bright eyes. 

Down the dell she tripped and through the 
glade, 

Peeped the squirrel from the hazel shade, 
And from out the tree 
Swung and leaped, and frolicked, void of 
fear,— 

While bold blackbird piped that all might 
hear— 

“Little Bell,” piped he. 

Little Bell sat down amid the fern— 
“Squirrel, squirrel, to your task return— 
Bring me nuts,” quoth she. 

Up, away the frisky squirrel hies— 

Golden wood-lights glancing in his eyes— 
And adown the tree, 

Great ripe nuts, kissed brown by July sun, 
In the little lap dropped one by one— 
Hark, how blackbird pipes to see the fun ! 
“ Happy Bell,” pipes he. 

Little Bell looked up and down the glade— 
“ Squirrel, squirrel, if you’re not afraid, 
Come and share with me!” 

Down came squirrel eager for his fare— 
Down came bonny blackbird, I declare; 
Little Bell gave each his honest share— 

Ah the merry three! 

And the while these frolic playmates twain 
Piped and frisked from bough to bough 
again, 

’Neath the morning skies, 

In the little childish heart below 
All the sweetness seemed to grow and grow, 
And shine out in happy overflow 
From her blue, bright eyes. 

By her snow-white cot at close of day 
Knelt sweet Bell, with folded palms to 
pray— 





POETRY OF INFANCY AND CHILDHOOD. 


39 


Very calm and clear 
Rose the praying voice to where, unseen, 
In blue heaven, an angel shape serene 
Paused a while to hear— 

“ What good child is this,” the angel said, 
“ That with happy heart, beside her bed 
Prays so lovingly?” 

Low and soft, oh ! very low and soft, 
Crooned the blackbird in the orchard croft, 
“ Bell, dear Bell!” crooned he. 

“ Whom God’s creatures love,” the angel 
fair 

Murmured, “ God doth bless with angels’ 
care; 

Child, thy bed shall be 
Folded safe from harm — Love, deep and 
kind, 

Shall watch around and leave good gifts 
behind, 

Little Bell, for thee!” 

Thomas Westwood. 


The Reconcilia tion. 

As thro’ the land at eve we went, 

And pluck’d the ripen’d ears, 

We fell out, my wife and I, 

We fell out—I know not why—■ 

And kiss’d again with tears. 

And blessings on the falling-out 
That all the more endears, 

When we fall out with those we love 
And kiss again with tears! 

For when we came where lies the child 
We lost in other years, 

There above the little grave, 

Oh there above the little grave, 

We kiss’d again with tears. 

Alfred Tennyson. 


Golden-Tressed Adelaide. 

A Song for a Child. 

Sing, I pray, a little song, 

Mother dear! 

Neither sad nor very long: 

It is for a little maid, 

Golden-tressfed Adelaide! 

Therefore let it suit a merry, merry ear, 
Mother dear! 


Let it be a merry strain, 

Mother dear! 

Shunning e’en the thought of pain : 

For our gentle child will weep 
If the theme be dark and deep ; 

And we will not draw a single, single tear, 
Mother dear! 

Childhood should be all divine, 

Mother dear! 

And like an endless summer shine; 

Gay as Edward’s shouts and cries, 

Bright as Agnes’ azure eyes: 

Therefore bid thy song be merry:—dost 
thou hear, 

Mother dear? 

Bryan Waller Procter. 

Casa Wappy. 

And hast thou sought thy heavenly home, 
Our fond, dear boy— 

The realms where sorrow dare not come, 
Where life is joy? 

Pure at thy death, as at thv birth, 

Thy spirit caught no taint from earth ; 
Even by its bliss we mete our dearth, 

Casa Wappy! 

Despair was in our last farewell, 

As closed thine eye; 

Tears of our anguish may not tell 
When thou didst die; 

Words may not paint our grief for thee; 
Sighs are but bubbles on the sea 
Of our unfathom’d agony ! 

Casa Wappy! 

Thou wert a vision of delight, 

To bless us given; 

Beauty embodied to our sight— 

A type of heaven ! 

So dear to us thou wert, thou art 
Even less thine own self, than a part 
Of mine, and of thy mother’s heart, 

Casa Wappy! 

Thy bright, brief day knew no decline— 
’Twas cloudless joy; 

Sunrise and night alone were thine, 
Beloved boy! 

This morn beheld thee blythe and gay; 
That found thee prostrate in decay ; 

And ere a third shone, clay was clay, 

Casa Wappy! 








40 


FIRESIDE ENCYCLOPAEDIA OF POETRY. 


Gem of our hearth, our household pride, 
Earth’s undefiled, 

Could love have saved, thou hadst not died, 
Our dear, sweet child ! 

Humbly we bow to Fate’s decree ; 

Yet had we hoped that Time should see 
Thee mourn for us, not us for thee, 

Casa Wappy! 

Do what I may, go where I will, 

Thou meet’st my sight; 

There dost thou glide before me still— 

A forin of light! 

I feel thy breath upon my cheek— 

I see thee smile, I hear thee speak— 

Till oh ! my heart is like to break, 

Casa Wappy! 

Methinks thou smil’st before me now. 
With glance of stealth; 

The hair thrown back from thy full brow 
In buoyant health; 

I see thine eyes’ deep violet light— 

Thy dimpled cheek carnation’d bright— 
Thy clasping arms so round and white— 
Casa Wappy! 

The nursery shows thy pictured wall, 

Thy bat—thy bow— 

Thy cloak and bonnet—club and ball; 

But where art thou ? 

A corner holds thine empty chair; 

Thy playthings, idly scatter’d there, 

But speak to us of our despair, 

Casa Wappy! 

Even to the last, thy every word—• 

To glad—to grieve— 

Was sweet, as sweetest song of bird 
On summer’s eve; 

In outward beauty undecay’d, 

Death o’er thy spirit cast no shade, 

And, like the rainbow, thou didst fade, 
Casa Wappy! 

We mourn for thee, when blind, blank 
night 

The chamber fills; 

We pine for thee, when morn’s first light 
.Reddens the hills; 

The sun, the moon, the stars, the sea, 

All—to the wall-flower and wild-pea— 

Are changed; we saw the world thro’ thee, 
Casa Wappy! 


And though, perchance, a smile may 
gleam 

Of casual mirth, 

It doth not own, whate’er may seem, 

An inward birth; 

We miss thy small step on the stair;— 

We miss thee at thine evening prayer; 

All day we miss thee—everywhere— 

Casa Wappy! 

Snows muffled earth when thou didst go, 
In life’s spring-bloom, 

Down to the appointed house below— 

The silent tomb. 

But now the green leaves of the tree, 

The cuckoo and “ the busy bee,” 

Return, but with them, bring not thee, 
Casa Wappy! 

’Tis so; but can it be—while flowers 
Revive again— 

Man’s doom, in death that we and ours 
For aye remain ? 

Oh can it be, that, o’er the grave, 

The grass renew’d should yearly wave, 

Yet God forget our child to save? 

Casa Wappy! 

It cannot be; for were it so 
Thus man could die, 

Life were a mockery—thought were woe- 
And truth a lie; 

Heaven were a coinage of the brain— 
Religion frenzy—virtue vain— 

And all our hopes to meet again, 

Casa Wappy! 

Then be to us, O dear lost child! 

With beam of love, 

A star, death’s uncongenial wild 
Smiling above! 

Soon, soon thy little feet have trod 
The skyward path, the seraph’s rotid, 

That led thee back from man to God, 

Casa Wappy! 

Yet, ’tis sweet balm to our despair, 

Fond, fairest boy, 

That heaven is God’s, and thou art there. 
With him in joy ; 

There past are death and all its woes ; 
There beauty’s stream for ever flows; 

And pleasure’s day no sunset knows, 

Casa Wappy! 




POETRY OF INFANCY AND CHILDHOOD. 


41 


Farewell, then—for a while, farewell— 
Pride of my heart! 

It cannot be that long we dwell 
Thus torn apart. 

Time’s shadows like the shuttle flee ; 

And, dark howe’er life’s night may be, 

Beyond the grave I’ll meet with thee, 

Casa Wappy! 

David Macbeth Moir. 

Willie Winnie. 

Wee Willie Winkie rins through the totvn, 

Up stairs and doon stairs, in his nicht gown, 

Tirlin’ at the window, cryin’ at the lock, 

“Are the weans in their bed?—for it’s no\y 
ten o’clock.” 

Hey, Willie Winkie! are ye cornin’ ben ? 

The cat’s singin’ gay thrums to the sleepin’ 
hen, 

The doug’s speldered on the floor, and disna 
gie a cheep; 

But here’s a waukrife laddie that winna fa’ 
asleep. 

Onything but sleep, ye rogue!—glowerin’ 
like the moon, 

Rattlin’ in an airn jug wi’ an aim spoon, 

Rumblin’, tumblin’ roun’ about, crawin’ 
like a cock, 

Skirlin’ like a kenna-what — wauknin’ 
sleepin’ folk. 

Hey, Willie Winkie ! the wean’s in a creel! 

Waumblin’ aff a bodie’s knee like a vera 
eel, 

Ruggin’ at the cat’s lug, and ravellin’ a’ her 
thrums: 

Hey, Willie Winkie!—See, there he comes! 

Weary is the mither that has a storie wean, 

A wee stumpie stoussie, that canna rin his 
lane, 

That has a battle aye wi’ sleep before he’ll 
close an ee; 

But a kiss frae aff his rosy lips gies strength 
anew to me. 

William Miller. 

^ The Babie. 

Nae shoon to hide her tiny taes, 

Nae stockin’ on her feet; 

Her supple ankles white as snaw, 

Or early blossoms siveet. 


Her simple dress o’ sprinkled pink, 

Her double, dimplit chin, 

Her puckered lips and balmy mou’ 

With na ane tooth within. 

Her een sae like her mither’s een, 

Twa gentle, liquid things; 

Her face is like an angel’s face: 

We’re glad she has nae wings. 

She is the buddin’ o’ our luve, 

A giftie God gied us: 

We maun na luve the gift owre weel; 
’Twad be na blessin’ thus. 

We still maun lo’e the Giver mair, 

An’ see Him in the given ; 

An’ sae she’ll lead us up to Him, 

Our babie straight frae heaven. 

J. E. Rankin. 

The Dumb Child. 

She is my only girl: 

I ask’d for her as some most precious thing, 
For all unfinish’d was love’s jewell’d ring 
Till set with this soft pearl: 

The shade that time brought forth I could 
not see; 

How pure, how perfect, seem’d the gift to 
me! 

Oh, many a soft old tune 
I used to sing unto that deaden’d ear, 

And suffer’d not the lightest footstep neaT, 
Lest she might wake too soon, 

And hush’d her brothers’ laughter while 
she lay— 

Ah, needless care! I might have let them 
play! 

’Twas long ere I believed 
That this one daughter might not speak to 
me: 

Waited and watch’d. God knows how 
patiently! 

How willingly deceived! 

Vain Love was long the untiring nurse of 
Faith, 

And tended Hope until it starved to death. 

Oh if she could but hear 
For one short hour, till I her tongue might 
teach 

To call me mother, in the broken speech 
That thrills the mother’s ear! 

Alas! those seal’d lips never may be stirr’d 
To the deep music of that lovely word. 










42 


FIRESIDE ENCYCLOPAEDIA OF POETRY. 


My heart it sorely tries 
To see her kneel, with such a reverent air, 
Beside her brothers, at their evening 
prayer; 

Or lift those earnest eyes 
To watch our lips, as though our words 
she knew,— 

Then move her own, as she were speaking 
too. 

I’ve watch’d her looking up 
To the bright wonder of a sunset sky, 
With such a depth of meaning in her eye, 

That I could almost hope 
The struggling soul would burst its bind¬ 
ing cords, 

And the long pent-up thoughts flow forth 
in words. 

The song of bird and bee, 

The chorus of the breezes, streams, and 
groves, 

All the grand music to which Nature 
moves, 

Are wasted melody 

To her; the world of sound a nameless 
void, 

While even Silence hath its charms de¬ 
stroy’d. 

Her face is very fair: 

Her blue eye beautiful: of finest mould 
The soft, white brow, o’er which in waves 
of gold 

Ripples her shining hair. 

Alas! this lovely temple closed must be; 
For He who made it keeps the master- 
key. 

Wills He the mind within 
Should from earth’s Babel-clamor be kept 
free, 

E’en that His still small voice and step 
might be 

Heard at its inner shrine, 

Through that deep hush of soul, with 
clearer thrill ? 

Then should I grieve? 0 murmuring 
heart, be still! 

She seems to have a sense 
Of quiet gladness in her noiseless play. 

She bath a pleasant smile, a gentle way, 

Whose voiceless eloquence 


Touches all hearts, though I had once the 
fear 

That even her father would not care for 
her. 

Thank God it is not so ! 

And when his sons are playing merrily, 
She comes and leans her head upon his 
knee. 

Oh, at such times I know, 

By his full eye and tones subdued and 
mild, 

How his heart yearns over his silent child. 

Not of all gifts bereft, 

Even now. How could I say she did not 
speak ? 

What real language lights her eye and 
cheek, 

And renders thanks to Him who left 
Unto her soul yet open, avenues 
For joy to enter, and for love to use ! 

And God in love doth give 
To her defect a beauty of its own : 

And we a deeper tenderness have known, 

Through that for which we grieve. 

Yet shall the seal be melted from her 
ear, 

Yes, and my voice shall fill it—but not 
here! 

When that new sense is given, 

What rapture will its first experience be, 
That never woke to meaner melody 

Than the rich songs of Heaven— 

To hear the full-toned anthem swelling 
round, 

While angels teach the ecstasies of 
sound! 

Author Unknown. 

The Wonderful Wean. 

Our wean’s the most wonderfu’ wean e’er 
I saw; 

It would tak me a lang simmer day to 
tell a’ 

His pranks, frae the mornin’ till night 
shuts his ee, 

When he sleeps like a peerie, ’tween father 
and me; 








POETRY OF INFANCY AND CHILDHOOD. 


43 


For in his quite turns siccan questions 
he’ll spier! 

How the moon can stick up in the sky 
that’s sae clear? 

What gars the wind blaw? and whar frae 
comes the rain ? 

He’s a perfec’ divirt—he’s a wonderfu’ 
wean! 

Or wha was the first bodie’s father ? and 
wha 

Made the vera first snaw-shooer that ever 
did fa’? 

And wha made the first bird that sang on 
a tree ? 

And the water that sooms a’ the ships in 
the sea? 

But after I’ve told him as weel as I ken, 

Again he begins wi’ his w T ha and his 
when; 

And he looks aye sae wistfu’ the whiles I 
explain: 

He’s as auld as the hills—he’s an auld- 
farrant wean. 

And folk wha liae skill o’ the lumps on the 
head 

Hint there’s mae ways than toilin’ o’ win- 
nin’ ane’s bread; 

flow he’ll be a rich man, and hae men to 
work for him, 

Wi’ a kyte like a baillie’s, shug-shuggin’ 
afore him; 

Wi’ a face like the moon—sober, sonsy, and 
douce— 

And a back, for its breadth, like the side 
o’ a house. 

’Tweel! I’m unco ta’en up wi’t—they mak 
a’ sae plain. 

He’s just a town’s talk; he’s a bv-ord’nar 
wean! 

I ne’er can forget sic a laugh as I gat, 

To see him put on father’s waistcoat and 
hat; 

Then the lang-leggit boots gaed sae far 
owre his knees 

The tap-loops wi’ his fingers he grippit wi’ 
ease; 

Then lie march’d through the house, he 
march’d but, he march’d ben, 

Like owre mony mae o’ our great little 
men, 


'That I leuch clean outright, for I cou'dna 
contain: 

He was sic a conceit—sic an ancient-like 
wean! 

But ’mid a’ his daffin sic kindness he shows, 

That he’s dear to my heart as the dew to 
the rose; 

I And the unclouded hinny-beam aye in 
his ee 

Maks him every day dearer and dearer 
to me. 

Though Fortune be saucy, and dorty, and 
dour, 

And gloom through her fingers like hills 
through a shooer, 

When bodies hae gat a bit bit bairn o’ 
their ain, 

How he cheers up their hearts!—lie’s a 
wonderfu’ wean! 

William Miller. 


Charity Children a t St. Pa ups. 

’Twas on a holy Thursday, their innocent 
faces clean, 

The children walking two and two, in red 
and blue and green; 

Grav-headed beadles walked before, with 
wands as white as snow, 

Till into the high dome of Paul’s they like 
Thames’ waters flow, 

Oh, what a multitude they seemed, these 
flowers of London town, 

Seated in companies they sit, with radiance 
all their own; 

The hum of multitudes was there, but mul¬ 
titudes of lambs, 

Thousands of little boys and girls, raising 
their innocent hands. 

Now like a mighty wind they raise to 
heaven the voice of song, 

Or like harmonious thunderings the seats 
of heaven among: 

Beneath them sit the aged men, wise guard¬ 
ians of the poor. 

Then cherish pity, lest you drive an angel 
from your door. 

William Blake. 







44 


FIRESIDE ENCYCLOPEDIA OF POETRY. 


Twenty-one. 

Grown to man’s stature! 0 my little 
child! 

My bird that sought the skies so long 
ago! 

My fair, sweet blossom, pure and unde¬ 
filed, 

How have the years flown since we laid 
thee low! 

What have they been to thee? If thou 
wert here, 

Standing beside thy brothers, tall and 
fair, 

With bearded lip, and dark eyes shining 
clear, 

And glints of summer sunshine in thy 
hair, 

I should look up into thy face and say, 

Wavering, perhaps, between a tear and 
smile, 

“ O my sweet son, thou art a man to¬ 
day!” 

And thou wouldst stoop to kiss my lips 
the while. 

But—up in heaven—how is it with thee, 
dear? 

Art thou a man—to man’s full stature 
grown ? 

Dost thou count time, as we do, year by 
year ? 

And what of all earth’s changes hast 
thou known? 

Thou hadst not learn’d to love me. Didst 
thou take 

Any small germ of love to heaven with 
thee, 

That thou hast watch’d and nurtured for 
my sake, 

Waiting till I its perfect flower may see? 

What is it to have lived in heaven always? 

To have no memory of pain or sin ? 

Ne’er to have known in all the calm, bright 
days 

The jar and fret of earth’s discordant din? 

Thy brothers—they are mortal—they must 
tread 

Ofttimes in rough, hard ways, with bleed¬ 
ing feet; 


Must fight with dragons, must bewail their 
dead, 

And fierce Apollyon face to face must 
meet. 

I, who would give my very life for theirs— 

I cannot save them from earth’s pain oi 
loss; 

I cannot shield them from its griefs or 
cares; 

Each human heart must bear alone its 
cross! 

Was God, then, kinder unto thee than 
them, 

O thou whose little life was but a span? 

Ah, think it not! In all his diadem 

No star shines brighter than the kingly 
man, 

Who nobly earns whatever crown he wears, 

Who grandly conquers or as grandly dies, 

And the white banner of his manhood 
bears 

Through all the years uplifted to the 
skies! 

What lofty pceans shall the victor greet! 

What crown resplendent for his brow be 
fit! 

O child, if earthly life be bitter-sweet, 

Hast thou not something missed in miss¬ 
ing it? 

Julia Caroline Dorr. 


The Child Musician. 

He had played for his lordship’s levee, 

He had played for her ladyship’s whim, 
Till the poor little head was heavy, 

And the poor little brain would swim. 


And the face grew peaked and eerie, 

And the large eyes strange and bright, 
And they said—too late—“ He is weary! 
He shall rest for at least to-night!” 


But at dawn, when the birds were waking, 
As they watched in the silent room, 

I With the sound of a strained cord breaking, 
i A something snapped in the gloom. 











RECONCILIATION 

When we fall out with those we love and kiss again with tears .”—Page jg. 







A CHILD’S PLEA 

“ Sing, I pray, a little song, 

Mother dear ! 

Neither sad nor very long : 

Therefore, bid thy song be merry :— 
Dost thou hear, 

Mother dear ?”—Page 39. 















POETRY OF INFANCY AXD CHILE HOOP. 


45 


'Twas a string of Ins violoncello, 

And they heard him stir in his bed :— 
“ Make room for a tired little fellow, 

Kind God!”—was the last that he said. 

Austin Dobson. 


The Sleeping Babe. 

The baby wept; 

The mother took it from the nurse’s arms, 
And soothed its griefs, and stilled its vain 
alarms, 

And baby slept. 

Again it weeps, 

And God doth take it from the mother’s 
arms, 

From present pain and future unknown 
harms, 

And baby sleeps. 

Samuel Hinds. 

Which Shall it be? 

“ Which shall it be ? Which shall it be?” 
I look’d at John—John look’d at me 
(Dear, patient John, who loves me yet 
As well as though my locks were jet); 

And when I found that I must speak, 

My voice seem’d strangely low and weak: 

“ Tell me again what Robert said.” 

And then I, listening, bent my head. 

“ This is his letter: ‘1 will give 
A house and land while you shall live, 

I f, in return, from out your seven, 

One child to me for aye is given.’ ” 

I look’d at John’s old garments worn, 

I thought of all that John had borne 
Of poverty and work and care, 

Which I, though willing, could not share; 
I thought of seven mouths to feed, 

Of seven little children’s need, 

And then of this. “ Come, John,” said I, 
“ We’ll choose among them as they lie 
Asleepso, walking hand in hand, 

Dear John and I survey’d our band. 

First to the cradle lightly stepp’d, 

■Where the new nameless baby slept. 

“Shall it be Baby?” whispered John. 

I took his hand, and hurried on 
To Lily’s crib. Her sleeping grasp 
Held her old doll within its clasp; 

Her dark curls lay like gold alight, 

A glory ’gainst the pillow white. 


I Softly her father stoop’d to lay 
His rough hand down in loving way, 

When dream or whisper made her stir, 
Then huskily said John,“Not her, not her!” 
We stopp’d beside the trundle-bed, 

And one long ray of lamplight shed 
Athwart the boyish faces there, 

In sleep so pitiful and fair; 

I saw on Jamie’s rough, red cheek 
A tear undried. Ere John could speak, 

“ He’s but a baby, too,” said I, 

And kiss’d him as we hurried by-. 

Pale, patient Robbie’s angel face 
Still in his sleep bore suffering’s trace. 
“No, for a thousand crowns, not him !” 
We whisper’d, while our eyes were dim. 
Poor Dick ! bad Dick ! our wayward son, 
Turbulent, reckless, idle one— 

Could he be spared? Nay ; He who gave 
Bids us befriend him to his grave; 

Only a mother’s heart can be 
j Patient enough for such as he; 

' “And so,” said John, “I would not dare 
i To send him from her bedside prayer.” 
j Then stole we softly up above 
And knelt by Mary, child of love. 
“Perhaps for her ’twould better be,” 

I said to John. Quite silently 
He lifted up a curl astray 
Across her cheek in wilful way, 

And shook his head: “ Nay, love; not thee,” 
The while my heart beat audibly. 

Only one more, our eldest lad, 

Trusty and truthful, good and glad— 

So like his father. “No, John, no— 

I cannot, will not, let him go.” 

And so we wrote, in courteous way, 

We could not give one child away; 

And afterward toil lighter seem’d, 
Thinking of that of which we dream’d, 
Happy in truth that not one face 
We miss’d from its accustom’d place ; 
Thankful to work for all the seven, 
Trusting the rest to One in heaven. 

Ethel Lynn Beers. 


The Children’s Hour. 

Between the dark and the daylight, 
When the night is beginning to lower, 
Comes a pause in the day’s occupations, 
That is known as the Children’s Hour. 







4G 


FIRESIDE ENCYCLOPAEDIA OF POETRY. 


1 hear in the chamber above me 
The patter of little feet, 

The sound of a door that is opened, 

And voices soft and sweet. 

From my study I see in the lamplight, 
Descending the broad hall stair, 

Grave Alice, and laughing Allegra, 

And Edith with golden hair. 

A whisper, and then a silence: 

Yet I know by their merry eyes 
They are plotting and planning together 
To take me by surprise. 

A sudden rush from the stairway, 

A sudden raid from the hall! 

By three doors left unguarded 
They enter my castle wall! 

They climb up into my turret 

O’er the arms and back of my chair; 
If I try to escape, they surround me; 
They seem to be everywhere. 

They almost devour me with kisses, 
Their arms about me entwine, 

Till I think of the Bishop of Bingen 
In his Mouse-Tower on the Rhine! 

Do you think, O blue-eyed banditti, 
Because you have scaled the wall, 

Such an old moustache as I am 
Is not a match for you all ? 

I have you fast in my fortress, 

And will not let you depart, 

But put you down into the dungeon 
In the round-tower of my heart. 

And there will I keep you for ever, 

Yes, for ever and a day, 

Till the walls shall crumble to ruin, 

And moulder in dust away! 

Henry Wadsworth Longfellow. 


The Mi ther less Bairn. 

When a’ ither bairnies are hush’d to their 
hame 

By aunty, or cousin, or frecky grand-dame, 

Wha stands last and lanely, an’ naebody 
carin’ ? 

’T is the puir doited loonie,—the mitherless 
bairn! 


The mitherless bairn gangs to his lane 
bed; 

Nane covers his cauld back or haps his 
bare head; 

His Avee hackit heelies are hard as the 
airn, 

An’ litheless the lair o’ the mitherless 
bairn. 

Aneath his cauld brow siccan dreams hover 
there 

O’ hands that wont kindly to kame his dark 
hair; 

But mornin’ brings clutches, a’ reckless an’ 
stern, 

That lo’e nae the locks o’ the mitherless 
bairn! 

Yon sister that sang o’er his saftly-rock’d 
bed 

Now rests in the nrools where her mammie 
is laid; 

The father toils sair their Avee bannock to 
earn, 

An’ kens na the wrangs o’ his mitherless 
bairn. 

Her spirit, that passed in yon hour o’ his 
birth, 

Still watches his wearisome wanderings on 
earth; 

Recording in heaA r en the blessings they 
earn 

Wha .couthilie deal Avi’ the mitherless 
bairn! 

Oh, speak him na harshly,—he trembles the 
while, 

He bends to your bidding, and blesses your 
smile; 

In their dark hour o’ anguish the heartless 
shall learn 

That God deals the bloAv for the mitherless 
bairn! 

\\ 7 illiam Thom. 

The Orphan Boys Tale. 

Stay, lady, stay, for mercy’s sake, 

And bear a helpless orphan’s tale; 

Ah, sure my looks must pity wake,— 

’Tis want that makes my cheek so pale; 

Yet I avrs once a mother’s pride, 

And my brave father’s hope and joy; 




POETRY OF INFANCY AND CHILDHOOD. 


47 


But in the Nile’s proud fight he died, 

And I am now an orphan hoy! 

Poor, foolish child ! how pleased was I, 
When news of Nelson’s victory came, 
Along the crowded streets to fly, 

To see the lighted windows flame! 

To force me home my mother sought,— 
She could not bear to hear my joy; 

For with my father’s life ’twas bought,— 
And made me a poor orphan boy ! 

The people’s shouts were long and loud; 

My mother, shuddering, closed her ears; 
“ Rejoice! rejoice!” still cried the crowd,— 
My mother answer’d with her tears! 
“Oh why do tears steal down your cheek,” 
Cried I, “while others shout for joy?” 
She kiss’d me; and in accents weak, 

She call’d me her poor orphan boy! 

“ What is an orphan boy?” I said ; 

When suddenly she gasp’d for breath, 
And her eyes closed ! I shriek’d for aid, 
But ah ! her eyes were closed in death. 
My hardships since I will not tell; 

But now, no more a parent’s joy, 

Ah, lady, I have learn’d too well 
What ’tis to be an orphan boy! 

Oh, were I by your bounty fed !— 

Nay, gentle lady, do not chide; 

Trust me, I mean to earn my bread,— 

The sailor’s orphan boy has pride. 

Lady, you weep ; what is’t you say ? 

You’ll give me clothing, food, employ? 
Look down, dear parents! look and see 
Your happy, happy orphan boy! 

Amelia Opie. 

In School-Days. 

Still sits the school-house by the road, 

A ragged beggar sunning; 
l round it still the sumachs grow, 

And blackberry-vines are running. 

Within, the master’s desk is seen, 

Deep scarred by raps otflcial; 

The warping floor, the battered seats, 

The jack-knife’s carved initial ; 

The charcoal frescos on its wall ; 

Its door’s worn sill, betraying 


The feet that., creeping slow to school, 
Went storming out to playing! 

Long years ago a winter sun 
Shone over it at setting ; 

Lit up its western window-panes, 

And low eaves’ icy fretting. 

It touched the tangled golden curls, 

And brown eyes full of grieving, 

Of one who still her steps delayed 
When all the school were leaving. 

For near her stood the little boy 
Her childish favor singled; 

His cap pulled low upon a face 
Where pride and shame were mingled. 

Pushing with restless feet the snow 
To right and left, he lingered;— 

As restlessly her tiny hands 
The blue-cliecked apron fingered. 

He saw her lift her eyes; he felt 
The soft hand’s light caressing, 

And heard the tremble of her voice. 

As if a fault confessing. 

“ I’m sorry that I spelt the word: 

I hate to go above you, 

Because,”—the brown eyes lower fell,— 

“ Because, you see, I love you !” 

Still memory to a gray-haired man 
That sweet child-face is showing. 

Dear girl! the grasses on her grave 
Have forty years been growing I 

He lives to learn, in life’s hard school, 
How few who pass above him 

Lament their triumph and his loss, 

Like her,—because they love him. 

John G. Whittier. 

To a Child of Quality. 

Five Years Old, MDCCIV., the Author 
then Forty. 

Lords, knights, and squires, the numerous 
band, 

That wear the fair Miss Mary’s fetters, 

Were summoned by her high command, 

To show their passions by their letters. 







FIRESIDE EE CYCLOPAEDIA OF POETRY 


iS 


My pen among the rest I took, 

Lest those bright eyes that cannot read 
Should dart their kindling fires, and look 
The power they have to be obeyed. 

Nor quality, nor reputation. 

Forbid me yet my flame to tell, 

Dear five-years old befriends my passion, 
And I may write till she can spell. 

For, while she makes her silkworms beds 
With all the tender things I swear, 
Whilst all the house my passion reads 
In papers round her baby’s hair, 

She may receive and own my flame; 

For, though the strictest prudes should 
know it, 

She’ll pass for a most virtuous dame, 

And I for<an unhappy poet. 

Then too, alas! when she shall tear 
The lines some younger rival sends, 
She’ll give me leave to write, I fear, 

And we shall still continue friends. 

For, as our different ages move, 

’Tis so ordained (would Fatebutmend it!) 
That I shall be past making love 
When she begins to comprehend it. 

Matthew Pkior. 

A Farewell. 

My fairest child, I have no song to give 
you; 

No lark could pipe to skies so dull and 
gray; 

Yet, ere we part, one lesson I can leave 
you 

For every day. 

Be good, sweet maid, and let who will be 
clever; 

Do noble things, not dream them, all 
day long; 

Ynd so make life, death, and that vast for¬ 
ever 

One grand, sweet song. 

Charles Kingsley. 

My Child. 

I cannot make him dead: 

His fair sunshiny head 
Is ever bounding round my study-chair; 


Yet, when my eyes, now dim 
With tears, I turn to him, 

The vision vanishes—he is not there! 

I walk my parlor floor, 

And through the open door 
I hear a footfall on the chamber stair, 

I’m stepping toward the hall 
To give the boy a call; 

And then bethink me that—he is not there! 

I thread the crowded street; 

A satchell’d lad I meet, 

With the same beaming eyes and color’d 
hair: 

And, as he’s running by, 

Follow him with my eye, 

Scarcely believing that—he is not there! 

I know his face is hid 
Under the coffin-lid; 

Closed are his eyes; cold is his forehead fair; 
Mv hand that marble felt; 

O’er it in prayer I knelt; 

Yet my heart whispers that—he is not 
there! 

I cannot make him dead ! 

When passing by the bed, 

So long watch’d over with parental care, 
My spirit and my eye 
Seek it inquiringly, 

Before the thought comes that—he is not 
there! 

When, at the cool, gray break 
Of day, from sleep I wake, 

With my first breathing of the morning air 
My soul goes up, with joy, 

To Him who gave my boy, 

Then comes the sad thought that—he is not 
there! 

When at the day’s calm close, 

Before we seek repose, 

I’m with his mother, offering up our prayer, 
Whate’er I may be saying, 

I am, in spirit, praying 
For our boy’s spirit, though—he is not 
there! 

Not there! Where, then, is he? 

The form I used to see 
Was but the raiment that he used to wear; 









POETRY OF INFANCY AND CHILDHOOD. 


49 


The grave, that now doth press 
Upon that cast-off dress, 

Is but his wardrobe lock’d ;— he is not 
there! 

lie lives! In all the past 
He lives; nor, to the last, 

Of seeing him again will I despair; 

In dreams I see him now ; 

And, on his angel brow, 

I see it written, “ Thou shaltsee me there!” 

Yes, we all live to God ! 

Father, thy chastening rod 

So help us, thine afflicted ones, to bear, 

That, in the spirit-land, 

Meeting at thy right hand, 

’Twill be our heaven to find that—he is 

there ! r 

John Pierpont. 

Lucy. 

She dwelt among the untrodden ways 
Reside the springs of Dove, 

A maid whom there were none to praise, 
And very few to love: 

A violet by a mossy stone 
Half hidden from the eye; 

Fair as a star, when only one 
Is shining in the sky. 

She lived unknown, and few could know 
When Lucy ceased to be; 

But she is in her grave, and, oh, 

The difference to me! 

William Wordsworth. 

Three Years she Grew. 

Three years she grew in sun and shower; 
Then Nature said, “ A lovelier flower 
On earth was never sown ; 

This child I to myself will take; 

She shall be mine, and I will make 
• A lady of my own. 

“Myself will to my darling be 
Both law and impulse, and with me 
The girl, in rock and plain, 

In earth and heaven, in glade and bower, 
Shall feel an overseeing power 
To kindle or restrain. 

“ She shall be sportive as the fawn, 

That wild with glee across the lawn 
4 


Or up the mountain springs; 

And hers shall be the breathing balm, 

And hers the silence and the calm 
Of mute, insensate things. 

“ The floating clouds their state shall lend 
To her; for her the willow bend: 

Nor shall she fail to see 
Even in the motions of the storm 
Grace that shall mould the maiden’s form 
By silent sympathy. 

“ The stars of midnight shall be dear 
To her ; and she shall lean her ear 
In many a secret place, 

Where rivulets dance their wayward round, 
And beauty born of murmuring sound 
Shall pass into her face. 

“ And vital feelings of delight 
Shall rear her form to stately height, 

Her virgin bosom swell; 

Such thoughts to Lucy I will give 
While she and I together live 
Here in this happy dell.” 

Thus Nature spake; the work was done —• 
How soon my Lucy’s race was run! 

She died, and left to me 
This heath, this calm and quiet scene, 

The memory of what has been, 

And never more will be. 

I 

William Wordsworth 

The Morning-Glory. 

WE wreathed about our darling’s head 
The morning-glory bright; 

Her little face looked out beneath, 

So full of life and light, 

So lit as with a sunrise, 

That we could only say, 

“ She is’the morning-glory true, 

And her poor types are they.” 

So always from that happy time 
We called her by their name, 

And very fitting did it seem; 

For sure as morning came, 

Behind her cradle-bars she smiled 
To catch the first faint ray, 

As from the trellis smiles the flower 
And opens to the day. 

But not so beautiful they rear 
Their airy cups of blue 







50 


FIRESIDE ENCYCLOPAEDIA OF POETRY . 


As turned her sweet eyes to the light, 
Brimmed with sleep’s tender dew; 

And not so close their tendrils fine 
i Round their supports are thrown 
As those dear arms whose outstretched 
plea 

Clasped all hearts to her own. 

We used to think how she had come, 

"Even as comes the flower, 

The last and perfect added gift 
To crown Love’s morning hour; 

And how in her was imaged forth 
The love we could not say, 

As on the little dewdrops round 
Shines back the heart of day. 

We never could have thought, O God, 
That she must wither up 
Almost before a day was flown, 

Like the morning-glory’s cup ; 

We never thought to see her droop 
Her fair and noble head, 

Till she lay stretched before our eyes, 
Wilted, and cold, and dead ! 

The morning-glory’s blossoming 
Will soon be coming round ; 

W e see their rows of heart-shaped leaves 
Upspringing from the ground; 

The tender things the winter killed 
Renew again their birth, 

But the glory of our morning 
Has passed away from earth. 

O Earth ! in vain our aching eyes 
Stretch over thy green plain ! 

Too harsh thy dews, too gross thine air, 
Her spirit to sustain ; 

But up in groves of Paradise 
Full surely we shall see 
Our morning-glory beautiful 
Twine round our dear Lord’s knee. 

Maria White Lowell. 

The Babe. 

Naked on parent’s knees, a new-born 
child, 

Weeping thou sat’st when all around thee 
smiled: 

So live, that, sinking to thy last long sleep, 
Thou then mayst smile while all around 
thee weep. 

Sir William Jones. 


The Three Sons. 

I have a son, a little son, a boy pust five 
years old, 

With eyes of thoughtful earnestness and 
mind of gentle mould. 

They tell me that unusual grace in all his 
ways appears, 

That my child is grave and wise of heart 
beyond his childish years. 

I cannot say how this may be; I know his 
face is fair— 

And yet his chiefest comeliness is his sweet 
and serious air; 

I know his heart is kind and fond, I know 
he loveth me, 

But loveth yet his mother more with grate¬ 
ful fervency. 

But that which others most admire is the 
thought which fills his mind— 

The food for grave, inquiring speech he 
everywhere doth find. 

Strange questions doth he ask of me when 
we together walk; 

He scarcely thinks as children think, or 
talks as children talk ; 

Nor cares he much for childish sports, 
dotes not on bat or ball, 

But looks on manhood’s ways and works, 
and aptly mimics all. 

His little heart is busy still, and oftentimes 
perplext 

With thoughts about this world of ours, 
and thoughts about the next. 

He kneels at his dear mother’s knee; she 
teacheth him to pray; 

And strange and sweet and solemn then 
are the words which he will say. 

Oh, should my gentle child be spared to 
manhood’s years, like me, 

A holier and a wiser man I trust that he 
will be; 

And when I look into his eyes and stroke 
his thoughtful brow, 

I dare not think what I should feel were 1 
to lose him now. 

I have a son, a second son, a simple child 
of three; 

I’ll not declare how bright and fair his 
little features be, 

How silver sweet those tones of his when 
he prattles on my knee; 




POETRY OF INFANCY ANI) CHILDHOOD. 


51 


I do not think hi,s light-blue eye is, like 
his brother’s, keen, 

Nor his brow so full of childish thought 
as his hath ever been ; 

But his little heart’s a fountain pure of 
kind and tender feeling, 

And his every look’s a gleam of light, rich 
depths of love revealing. 

When lie walks with me, the country folk, 
who pass us in the street, 

Will shout for joy, and bless my boy, he 
looks so mild and sweet. 

A playfellow is he to all; and yet, with 
cheerful tone, 

Will sing his little song of love when left 
to sport alone. 

His presence is like sunshine sent to glad¬ 
den home and hearth, 

To comfort us in all our griefs, and sweeten 
all our mirth. 

Should he grow up to riper years, God 
grant his heart may prove 
As sweet a home for heavenly grace as now 
for earthly love; 

And if, beside his grave, the tears our 
aching eyes must dim, 

God comfort us for all the love which we 
shall lose in him. 

I have a son, a third sweet son, his age I 
cannot tell, 

For they reckon not by years and months 
where he is gone to dwell. 

To us, for fourteen anxious months, his 
infant smiles were given, 

And then he bade farewell to earth, and 
went to live in heaven. 

I cannot tell what form is his, what looks 
he wearcth now, 

Nor guess how bright a glory crowns his 
shining seraph brow. 

The thoughts that fill his sinless soul, the 
bliss which he doth feel, 

Are number’d with the secret things which 
God will not reveal. 

But I know (for God hath told me this) 
that he is now at rest, 

Where other blessed infants be—on their 
Saviour’s loving breast. 

I know his spirit feels no more this weary 
load of flesh, 

But his sleep is bless’d with endless dreams 
of joy for ever fresh. 


I know the angels fold him close beneath 
their glittering wings, 

And soothe him with a song that breathes 
of heaven’s divinest things. 

I know that we shall meet our babe (his 
mother dear and I) 

Where God for aye shall wipe away all 
tears from every eye. 

Whate’er befalls his brethren twain, his 
bliss can never cease; 

Their lot may here be grief and fear, but 
his is certain peace. 

It may be that the tempter’s wiles their 
souls from bliss may sever; 

But, if our own poor faith fail not, he 
must be ours for ever. 

When -we think of what our darling is, 
and what we still must be— 

When we muse on that world’s perfect 
bliss and this world’s misery— 

When we groan beneath this load of sin, 
and feel this grief and pain— 

Oh, we’d rather lose our other two than 
have him here again ! 

John Moultrie. 

We are Seven. 

—A simple child, 

That lightly draws its breath, 

And feels its life in every limb, 

What should it know of death ? 

I met a little gottage girl; 

She was eight years old, she said; 

Her hair was thick with many a curl 
That cluster’d round her head. 

She had a rustic, woodland air, 

And she w r as wildly clad: 

Her eyes were fair, and very fair— 

Her beauty made me glad. 

“ Sisters and brothers, little maid, 

How many may you be?” 

“ How many ? Seven in all,” she said. 
And wondering look’d at me. 

“ And where are they ? I pray you tell. ” 
She answer’d, “ Seven are we; 

And two of us at Conway dwell, 

And two are gone to sea. 

“ Two of us in the churchyard lie, 

My sister and my brother; 





52 


FIRESIDE ENCYCLOPAEDIA OF POETRY. 


And in the churchyard cottage I 
Dwell near them with my mother.” 

“ You say that two at Conway dwell, 

And two are gone to sea, 

YYt ye are seven! I pray you tell, 

Sweet maid, how this may be?” 

Then did the little maid reply: 

“Seven boys and girls are we; 

Two of us in the churchyard lie, 

Beneath the churchyard tree.” 

“You run about, my little maid, 

Your limbs they are alive; 

If two are in the churchyard laid, 

Then ye are only five.” 

“ Their graves are green, they may be 
seen,” 

The little maid replied, 

“ Twelve steps or more from my mother’s 
door, 

And they are side by side. 

“ My stockings there I often knit, 

My kerchief there I hem ; 

And there upon the ground I sit— 

I sit and sing to them. 

“ And often after sunset, sir, 

When it is light and fair, 

I take my little porringer, 

And eat my supper there. 

“The first that died was little Jane; 

In bed she moaning lay, 

Till God released her of her pain; 

And then she went away. 

“ So in the churchyard she was laid; 

And when the grass was dry, 

Together round her grave we play’d, 

My brother John and I. 

14 And when the ground was white with 
snow, 

And I could run and slide, 

My brother John was forced to go, 

And he lies by her side.” 

k How many are you, then,” said I, 

“ If they two are in Heaven?” 

The little maiden did reply, 

“ Oh, master, we are seven 1” 


“ But they are dead—those two are dead. 
Their spirits are in Heaven !” 

’Twas throwing words away, for still 
The little maid would have her will. 
And said, “Nay, we are seven!” 

William Wordsworth. 


The Clown’s Baby. 

It was on the Western frontier; 

The miners, rugged and brown, 

Were gathered around the posters; 

The circus had come to town ! 

The great tent shone in the darkness 
Like a wonderful palace of light, 

And rough men crowded the entrance— 
Shows didn’t come every night! 

Not a woman’s face among them; 

Many a face that was bad, 

And some that were only vacant, 

And some that were very sad. 

And behind a canvas curtain, 

In a corner of the place, 

The clown, with chalk and vermilion, 
Was “ making up ” his face. 

A weary-looking woman, 

With a smile that still was sweet, 
Sewed on a little garment, 

With a cradle at her feet. 

Pantaloon stood ready and waiting; 

It was time for the going on, 

But the clown in vain searched wildly; 
The “ property-baby ” was gone ! 

He murmured, impatiently hunting, 

“ It’s strange I cannot find— 

There! I’ve looked in every corner; 

It must have been left behind !” 

The miners were stamping and shouting, 
They were not patient men. 

The clown bends over the cradle— 

“ I must take you, little Ben I” 

The mother started and shivered, 

But trouble and want were near; 

She lifted her baby gently; 

“ Y'ou’ll be very careful, dear?” 

“ Careful? You foolish darling,”— 

How tenderly it was said! 




POETRY OF INFANCY AND CHILDHOOD. 


53 


What a smile shone through the chalk and 
paint,— 

“ I love each hair of his head ! ” 

The noise rose into an uproar, 

Misrule for the time was king; 

The clown, with a foolish chuckle, 

Bolted into the ring. 

But as, with a squeak and flourish, 

The fiddles closed their tune, 

“You’ll hold him as if he was made of 
glass ?” 

Said the clown to the pantaloon. 

The jovial fellow nodded; 

“ I’ve a couple myself,” he said, 

“I know how to handle ’em, bless you! 

Old fellow, go ahead !” 

The fun grew fast and furious, 

And not one of all the crowd 
Had guessed that the baby was alive, 
When he suddenly laughed aloud. 

Oh, that baby-laugh ! It was echoed 
From the benches with a ring, 

And the roughest customer there sprang up 
With, “ Boys, it’s the real thing!” 

The ring was jammed in a minute, 

Not a man that did not strive 
For “ a shot at holding the baby,” 

The baby that was “ alive!” 

He was thronged by kneeling suitors 
In the midst of the dusty ring, 

And he held his court right royally,— 

The fair little baby-king,— 

Till one of the shouting courtiers, 

A man with a bold, hard face, 

The talk, for miles, of the country, 

And the terror of the place, 

Raised the little king to his shoulder, 

And chuckled, “ Look at that!” 

As the chubby fingers clutched his hair, 
Then, “ Boys, hand round the hat 1” 
There never was such a hatful 
Of silver, and gold, and notes; 

People are not always penniless 
Because they don’t wear coats ! 

And then, “Three cheers for the baby !” 

I tell you, those cheers were meant, 

And the way in which they were given 
Was enough to raise the tent. 

And then there was sudden silence, 

And a gruff old miner said, 


“Come, boys, enough of this rumpus! 

It’s time it was put to bed.” 

So, looking a little sheepish, 

But with faces strangely bright, 

The audience, somewhat lingeringly, 
Flocked out into the night. 

And the bold-faced leader chuckled,— 

“ He wasn’t a bit afraid ! 

He’s as game as he is good-looking; 

Boys, that was a show that paid!” 

Margaret T. Janvier. 

Boyhood. 

Aii ! then how sweetly closed those crowded 
days! 

The minutes parting one by one like rays, 
That fade upon a summer’s eve. 

But oh ! what charm, or magic numbers 
Can give me back the gentle slumbers 
Those weary, happy days did leave ? 
When by my bed I saw my mother kneel, 
And with her blessing took her nightly kiss; 
Whatever Time destroys, he cannot this— 
E’en now that nameless kiss I feel. 

Washington Allston. 

The Children in the I Yoon. 

Now ponder well, you parents deare, 

These wordes, which I shall write; 

A doleful story you shall heare, 

In time brought forth to light: 

A gentleman of good account 
In Norfolke dwelt of late, 

Who did in honor far surmount 
Most men of his estate. 

Sore sicke he was, and like to dye, 

No helpe his life could save ; 

His wife by him as sicke did lye, 

And both possest one grave. 

No love between these two was lost, 

Each was to other kinde ; 

In love they liv’d, in love they dyed, 

And left two babes behinde : 

The one a fine and pretty boy, 

Not passing three yeares olde ; 

The other a girl more young than he. 

And fram’d in beautyes moulde. 

The father left his little son, 

As plainlye doth appeare, 

When he to perfect age should come. 
Three hundred poundes a yeare. 




54 


FIRESIDE ENCYCLOPAEDIA OF POETRY. 


And to his little daughter Jane 
Five hundred poundes in gold, 

To be paid downe on marriage-day, 
Which might not be controll’d ; 

But if the children chance to dye 
Ere they to age should come, 

Their uncle should possesse their wealth, 
For so the wille did run. 

Now, brother, said the dying man, 

Look to my children deare ; 

Be good unto my boy and girl, 

No friendes else have they here: 

To God and you I recommend 
My children deare this daye ; 

But little while he sure we have 
Within this world to staye. 

You must be father and mother both, 
And uncle all in one ; 

God knowes what will become of them 
When I am dead and gone. 

With that bespake their mother deare, 
Oh brother kinde, quoth shee, 

You are the man must bring our babes 
To wealth or miserie: 

And if you keep them carefully, 

Then God will you reward ; 

But if you otherwise should deal, 

God will your deedes regard. 

With lippes as cold as any stone, 

They kist their children small: 

God bless you both, my children deare; 
With that the teares did fall. 

These speeches then their brother spake 
To this sicke couple there : 

The keeping of your little ones, 

Sweet sister, do not feare : 

God never prosper me nor mine, 

Nor aught else that I have, 

If I do wrong your children deare, 

When you are layd in grave. 

The parents being dead and gone, 

The children home he takes, 

And bringes them straite unto his house, 
Where much of them he makes. 

He had not kept these pretty babes 
A twelvemonth and a daye, 

But, for their wealth, he did devise 
To make them both awaye. 


He bargain’d with two ruffians strong, 
Which were of furious mood, 

That they should take these children young, 
And slave them in a wood. 

He told his wife an artful tale, 

He would the children send 
To be brought up in faire London, 

With one that was his friend. 

Away then went those pretty babes, 
Rejoycing at that tide, 

Rejoycing with a merry minde, 

They should on cock-horse ride. 

They prate and prattle pleasantly. 

As they rode on the waye, 

To those that should their butchers be, 
And work their lives decaye: 

So that the pretty speeche they had, 

Made Murder’s heart relent: 

And they that undertooke the deed 
Full sore did now repent. 

Yet one of them more hard of heart, 

Did vowe to do his charge, 

Because the wretch, that hired him, 

Had paid him very large. 

The other won’t agree thereto, 

So here they fall to strife ; 

With one another they did fight, 

About the childrens life: 

And he that was of mildest mood, 

Did slaye the other there, 

Within an unfrequented wood ; 

The babes did quake for feare! 

He took the children by the hand, 

Teares standing in their eye, 

And bad them straitwaye follow him, 

And look they did not crye ; 

And two long miles he ledd them on, 
While they for food complaine : 

Staye here, quoth he, I’ll bring you bread. 
When I come back againe. 

These pretty babes, with hand in hand, 
Went wandering up and downe, 

But never more could see the man 
Approaching from the towne: 

Their prettye lippes, with black-berries, 
Were all besmear’d and dyed, 

And, when they sawe the darksome night, 
They sat them downe and cry’d. 






POETRY OF INFANCY AND CHILDHOOD. 


55 


Thus wandered these poor innocents, 

Till deathe did end their grief; 

In one anothers arms they dyed, 

As wanting due relief. 

No burial “ this ” pretty “ pair ” 

Of any man receives, 

Till Robin-red-breast piously 
Did cover them with leaves. 

And now the heavy wrathe of God 
Upon their uncle fell; 

Yea, fearfull fiends did haunt his house, 
His conscience felt an hell. 

His barnes were tir’d, his goodes consum’d, 
His landes were barren made ; 

His cattle dyed within the field, 

And nothing with him stayd. 

And in a voyage to Portugal 
Two of his sonnes did dye ; 

And to conclude, himselfe was brought 
To want and miserye: 

He pawn’d and mortgaged all his land 
Ere seven years came about. 

And now at length this wicked act 
Did by this meanes come out: 

The fellowe, that did take in hand 
These children for to kill, 

Was for a robbery judg’d to dye, 

Such was God’s blessed will: 

Who did confess the very truth, 

As here hath been display’d : 

Their uncle having dyed in gaol, 

Where he for debt was layd. 

You that executors be made, 

And overseers eke 
Of children that be fatherless, 

And infants mild and meek ; 

Take you example by this thing, 

And yield to each his right, 

Lest God, with such like miserye, 

Your wicked minds requite. 

Author Unknown. 

On an Infant Dying as Soon as 
Born. 

I saw where in the shroud did lurk 
A curious frame of Nature’s work. 

A flowret crushed in the bud, 

A nameless piece of Babyhood, 

Was in her cradle-coffin lying; 

Extinct, with scarce the sense of dying: 


So soon to exchange the imprisoning womb 
For darker closets of the tomb! 

She did but ope an eye, and put 
A clear beam forth, then straight up shut 
For the long dark : ne’er more to see 
Through glasses of mortality. 

Riddle of destiny, who can show 
What thy short visit meant, or know 
What thy errand here below? 

Shall we say that Nature blind 
Checked her hand, and changed her mind, 
Just when she had exactly wrought 
A finished pattern without fault ? 

Could she flag, or could she tire, 

Or lacked she the Promethean fire 
(With her nine moons’ long workings 
sickened) 

That should thy little limbs have quick¬ 
ened? 

Limbs so firm, they seemed to assure 
Life of health, and days mature : 

Woman’s self in miniature! 

Limbs so fair, they might supply 
(Themselves now but cold imagery) 

The sculptor to make Beauty by. 

Or did the stern-eyed Fate descry 
That babe, or mother, one must die; 

So in mercy left the stock, 

And cut the branch ; to save the shock 
Of young years widowed; and the pain, 
When single state comes back again 
To the lone man who, reft of wife, 
Thenceforward drags a maimed life? 

The economy of Heaven is dark; 

And wisest clerks have missed the mark, 
Why human buds, like this, should fall 
More brief than fly ephemeral 
That has his day ; while shrivelled crones 
Stiffen with age to stocks and stones; 

And crabbed use the conscience sears 
In sinners of a hundred years. 

Mother’s prattle, mother’s kiss, 

Baby fond, thou ne’er will miss. 

Rites, which custom does impose, 

Silver bells and baby clothes; 

Coral redder than those lips, 

Which pale death did late eclipse; 

Music framed for infants’ glee, 

Whistle never tuned for thee; 

Though thou want’st not, thou shalt have 
them, 

Loving hearts were they which gave them. 




56 


FIRESIDE ENCYCLOPAEDIA OF POETRY. 


Let not one be missing; nurse, 

See them laid upon the hearse 
Of infant slain by doom perverse. 

Why should kings and nobles have 
Pictured trophies to their grave ; 

And we, churls, to thee deny 
Thy pretty toys with thee to lie, 

A more harmless vanity ? 

* Charles Lamb. 

Lucy Gray : or, Solitude. 

Oft I had heard of Lucy Gray; 

And, when I cross’d the wild, 

I chanced to see at break of day 
The solitary child. 

No mate, no comrade Lucy knew; 

She dwelt on a wide moor,— 

The sweetest thing that ever grew 
Beside a human door. 

You yet may spy the fawn at play, 
The hare upon the green, 

But the sweet face of Lucy Gray 
Will nevermore be seen. 

“To-night will be a stormy night; 

You to the town must go, 

And take a lantern, child, to light 
Your mother through the snow.” 

“ That, father, will I gladly do; 

’Tis scarcely afternoon; 

The minster clock has just struck two, 
And yonder is the moon.” 

At this the father raised his hook, 

And snapp’d a fagot-band; 

He plied his work; and Lucy took 
The lantern in her hand. 

Not blither is the mountain roe: 

With many a wanton stroke 
Her feet disperse the powdery snow, 
That rises up like smoke. 

The storm came on before its time: 

She wander’d up and down, 

And many a hill did Lucy climb, 

But never reach’d the town. 

The wretched parents all that night 
Went shouting far and wide, 


But there was neither sound nor sight 
To serve them for a guide. 

At daybreak on a hill they stood 
That overlook’d the moor, 

And thence they saw the bridge of wood, 
A furlong from their door. 

They wept, and turning homeward, cried, 
“ In heaven we all shall meet 
When in the snow the mother spied 
The print of Lucy’s feet. 

Half breathless, from the steep hill’s edge 
They track’d the foot-marks small, 

And through the broken hawthorn-hedge, 
And by the long stone wall, 

And then an open field they cross’d: 

The marks were still the same ; 

They track’d them on, nor ever lost, 

And to the bridge they came. 

They follow’d from the snowy bank 
Those foot-marks one by one, 

Into the middle of the plank, 

And further there were none. 

Yet some maintain that to this day 
She is a living child; 

That you may see sweet Lucy Gray 
Upon the lonesome wild. 

O’er rough and smooth she trips along, 
And never looks behind ; 

And sings a solitary song 

That whistles in the wind. 

William Wordsworth. 

The Widow and Child. 

Home they brought her warrior dead: 

She nor swoon’d, nor utter’d cry: 

All her maidens, watching, said, 

“ She must weep or she will die.” 

Then they praised him, soft and low, 
Called him worthy to be loved, 

Truest friend and noblest foe; 

Yet she neither spoke nor moved. 

Stole a maiden from her place, 

Lightly to the warrior stept, 

Took the face-cloth from the face; 

Yet she neither moved nor wept. 




POETRY OF INFANCY AND CHILDHOOD. 


57 


Hose a nurse of ninety years, 

Set his child upon her knee— 

Like summer tempest came her tears— 

“ Sweet my child, I live for thee.” 

Alfred Tennyson. 

The Schoolmistress. 

Ah me! full sorely is my heart forlorn, 

To think how modest worth neglected 
lies: 

While partial fame doth with her blasts 
adorn 

Such deeds alone as pride and pomp 
disguise; 

Deeds of ill sort, and mischievous ern- 
prize: 

Lend me thy clarion, goddess! let me try 
To sound the praise of merit, ere it dies; 

Such as I oft have chancfed to espy, 

Lost in the dreary shades of dull obscurity. 

In every village mark’d with little spire, 
Embower’d in trees, and hardly known 
to fame, 

There dwells in lowly shed, and mean at¬ 
tire, 

A matron old, whom we schoolmistress 
name; 

Who boasts unruly brats with birch to 
tame; 

They grieven sore, in piteous durance pent, 
Awed by the pow’r of this relentless 
dame; 

And oft-times, on vagaries idly bent, 

For unkempt hair, or task unconn’d, are 
sorely shent. 

And all in sight doth rise a birchen tree, 
Which learning near her little dome did 
stow; 

Whilom a twig of small regard to see, 

Tho’ now so wide its waving branches 
flow; 

And work the simple vassals mickle woe; 

For not a wind might curl the leaves that 
blew, 

But their limbs shudder’d and their pulse 
beat low; 

And as they look’d they found their horror 
grew, 

And shaped it into rods, and tingled at the 
view. 


So have I seen (who has not, may con¬ 
ceive) 

A lifeless phantom near a garden placed; 

So doth it wanton birds of peace bereave, 

Of sport, of song, of pleasure, of repast; 

They start, they stare, they wheel, they 
look aghast: 

Sad servitude ! such comfortless annoy 

May no bold Briton’s riper age e’er taste! 

Ne superstition clog his dance of joy, 

Ne vision empty, vain, his native bliss 
destroy. 

Near to this dome is found a patch so 
green, 

On which the tribe their gambols do 
display; 

And at the door impris’ning board is seen, 

Lest weakly wights of smaller size 
should stray, 

Eager, perdie, to bask in sunny day ! 

The noises intermix’d, which thence re¬ 
sound, 

Do learning’s little tenement betray: 

Where sits the dame, disguised in look 
profound, 

And eyes her fairy throng, and turns her 
wheel around. 

Her cap, far w T hiter than the driven snow, 

Emblem right meet of decency does 
yield; 

Her apron dyed in grain, as blue, I trow, 

As is the harebell that adorns the 
field: 

And in her hand, for sceptre, she does 
wield 

Tway birchen sprays; with anxious fear 
entwined, 

With dark distrust, and sad repentance 
fill’d; 

And steadfast hate, and sharp affliction 
join’d, 

And fury uncontroll’d and chastisement 
unkind. 

Few but have kenn’d, in semblance meet 
portray’d, 

The childish faces of old Eol’s train ; 

Libs, Notus, Auster; these in frowns ar¬ 
ray’d, 

How then would fare or earth, or sky, 
or main. 







58 


FIRESIDE ENCYCLOPEDIA OF POETRY. 


Were the stern god to give his slaves ' 
the rein ? 

And were not she rebellious breasts to 
quell, 

And were not she her statutes to main¬ 
tain, 

The cot no more, I ween, were deem’d the 
cell, 

Where comely peace of mind and decent 
order dwell. 

A russet stole was o’er her shoulders 
. thrown ; 

A russet kirtle fenced the nipping air; 

’Twas simple russet, but it was her own ; 

’Twas her own country bred the flock so 
fair ; 

’Twas her own labor did the fleece pre¬ 
pare ; 

And, sooth to say, her pupils, ranged 
around, 

Through pious awe, did term it passing 
rare; 

For they in gaping wonderment abound, 

And think, no doubt, she been the greatest 
wight on ground. 

Albeit ne flattery did corrupt her truth, 

Ne pompous title did debauch her ear; 

Goody, good woman, gossip, n’ aunt, for¬ 
sooth, 

Or dame, the sole additions she did 
hear; 

Yet these she challenged, these she held 
right dear : 

Ne would esteem him act as mought be¬ 
hove, 

Who should not honor’d eld with these 
revere; 

For never title yet so mean could prove, 

But there was eke a mind which did that 
title love. 

One ancient hen she took delight to feed, 

The plodding pattern of the busy dame, 

Which ever and anon, impell’d by need, 

Into her school, begirt with chickens, 
came; 

Such favor did her past deportment 
claim; 

And, if neglect had lavish’d on the 
ground 


Fragment of bread, she would collect 
the same, 

For well she knew, and quaintly could ex¬ 
pound, 

What sin it were to waste the smallest 
crumb she found. 

Herbs, too, she knew, and well of each 
could speak 

That in her garden sipp’d the silv’ry 
dew, 

Where no vain flow’r disclosed a gaudy 
streak; 

But herbs for use and physic, not a few, 
Of gray renown, within those borders 
grew: 

The tufted basil, pun-provoking thyme, 
Fresh balm, and marvgold of cheerful 
hue, 

The lowly gill, that never dares to climb ; 

And more I fain would sing, disdaining 
here to rhyme. 

Yet euphrasy may not be left unsung, 

That gives dim eyes to wander leagues 
around; 

And pungent radish, biting infant’s tongue, 
And plantain ribb’d, that heals the reap¬ 
er’s wound, 

And marj’ram sweet, in shepherd’s posie 
found, 

And lavender, whose spikes of azure bloom 
Shall be erewhile in arid bundles bound, 

To lurk amidst the labors of her loom, 

And crown her kerchiefs clean with mickle 
rare perfume. 

And here trim rosemarine, that whilom 
crown’d 

The daintiest garden of the proudest 
peer, 

Ere, driven from its envied site, it found 
A sacred shelter for its branches here ; 
Where, edged with gold, its glitt’ring 
skirts appear. 

Oh, wassel days! oh, customs meet and 
well! 

Ere this was banish’d from his lofty 
sphere: 

Simplicity then sought this humble cell, 

Nor ever would she more with thane and 
lordling dwell. 








POETRY OF INFANCY AND CHILDHOOD. 


59 


Here oft the dame, on Sabbath’s decent 
eve, 

Hymned such psalms as Sternhold forth 
did mete; 

If winter ’twere, she to her hearth did 
cleave, 

But in her garden found a summer- 
seat: 

Sweet melody ! to hear her then repeat 

How Israel’s sons, beneath a foreign king, 

While taunting foemen did a song en¬ 
treat, 

All, for the nonce, untuning ev’ry string, 

Uphung their useless lyres; small heart 
had they to sing. 

For she was just, and friend to virtuous 
lore, 

And pass’d much time in truly virtuous 
deed, 

And in those elfins’ ears would oft deplore 

The times when truth by popish rage 
did bleed, 

And tortuous death was true devotion’s 
meed, 

And simple faith in iron chains did mourn, 

That nould on wooden image placed her 
creed, 

And lawny saints in smould’ring flames did 
burn; 

Ah! dearest Lord, forfend thilk days should 
e’er return! 

In elbow-chair, like that of Scottish stem, 

By the sharp tooth of cank’ring eld de¬ 
faced, 

In which, when he receives his diadem, 

Our sov’reign prince and liefest liege is 
placed, 

The matron sate; and some with rank 
she graced 

(The source of children’s and of cour¬ 
tiers’ pride), 

Redress’d affronts, for vile affronts there 
pass’d, 

And warn’d them not the fretful to de¬ 
ride, 

But love each other dear, whatever them 
betide. 

Right well she knew each temper to descry: 

To thwart the proud, and the submiss to 
raise; 


Some with vile copper prize exalt on high, 
And some entice with pittance small of 
praise; 

And other some with baneful sprig she 
’frays: 

Ev’n absent, she the reins of power doth 
hold, 

While with quaint arts the giddy crowd 
she sways 

Forewarn’d, if little bird their pranks be¬ 
hold, 

’Twill whisper in her ear, and all the scene 
unfold. 

Lo now with state she utters the command! 
Eftsoons the urchins to their tasks repair; 

Their books of stature small they take in 
hand, 

Which with pellucid horn secured are; 
To save from fingers wet the letters fair: 

The work so gay, that on their back is seen, 
St. George’s high achievements does de¬ 
clare ; 

l 7 

| On which thilk wight that has y-gazing been, 

Kens the forthcoming rod, unpleasing sight, 
I ween! 

J Ah, luckless he, and born beneath the 
beam 

j Of evil star ! it irks me whilst I write ! 

: As erst the bard by Mulla’s silver stream, 
Oft, as he told of deadly dolorous plight, 
Sigh’d as he sung, and did in tears 
indite. 

For, brandishing the rod, she doth begin 
To loose the brogues, the stripling’s late 
delight! 

And down they drop; appears his dainty 
skin, 

Fair as the furry coat of whitest ermilin. 

Oh, ruthful scene! when from a nook ob¬ 
scure 

His little sister doth his peril see : 

All playful as she sate, she grows demure; 

She finds full soon her wonted spirits flee; 
She meditates a pray’r to set him free; 

Nor gentle pardon could this dame deny 
(If gentle pardon could with dames 
agree) 

To her sad grief that swells in either eye, 

And wrings her so that all for pity she» 
could die. 








GO 


FIRESIDE ENCYCLOPAEDIA OF POETRY. 


No longer can she now her shrieks com¬ 
mand ; 

And hardly she forbears, through awful 
fear, 

To rushen forth, and, with presumptuous 
hand, 

To stay hard justice in its mid career. 

On thee she calls, on thee her parent 
dear! 

(Ah! too remote to ward the shameful 
blow!) 

She sees no kind domestic visage near, 

And soon a flood of tears begins to flow; 

And gives a loose at last to unavailing 
woe. 

But, ah! what pen his piteous plight may 
trace ? 

Or what device his loud laments ex¬ 
plain? 

The form uncouth of his disguised face ? 

The pallid hue that dyes his looks amain ? 

The plenteous shower that does his cheek 
disdain ? 

When he in abject-wise implores the 
dame, 

Ne hopeth aught of sweet reprieve to 
gain; 

Or when from high she levels well her 
aim, 

And, through the thatch, his cries each 
falling stroke proclaim. 

The other tribe aghast, with sore dismay, 

Attend, and con their tasks with mickle 
care: 

By turns, astonied, ev’ry twig survey, 

And, from their fellow’s hateful wounds, 
beware; 

Knowing, I wist, how each the same 
may share; 

Till fear has taught them a performance 
meet, 

And to the well-known chest the dame 
repair; 

Whence oft with sugar’d cates she doth ’em 
greet, 

And ginger-bread y-rare; now, certes, 
doubly sweet! 

See to their seats they hie with merry 
glee, 

And in beseemly order sitten there; 


All but the wight of bum y-gallbd ; he 

Abhorreth bench, and stool, and form, 
and chair 

(This hand in mouth y-fix’d, that rends 
his hair); 

And eke with snubs profound, and heaving 
breast, 

Convulsions intermitting! does declare 

His grievous wrongs; his dame’s unjust 
behest, 

And scorns her offer'd love, and shuns to 
be caress’d. 

His face besprent with liquid crystal shines, 

His blooming face that seems a purple 
flow’r 

Which low to earth its drooping head de¬ 
clines, 

All smear’d and sullied by a vernal 
show’r. 

Oh, the hard bosoms of despotic pow’r! 

All, all, but she, the author of his shame, 

All, all, but she, regret this mournful 
hour: 

Yet hence the youth, and hence the flow’r 
shall claim, 

If so I deem aright, transcending worth 
and fame. 

Behind some door, in melancholy thought, 

Mindless of food, he, dreary caitiff! 
pines; 

Ne for his fellows’ joyaunce careth aught, 

But to the wind all merriment re¬ 
signs ; 

And deems it shame if he to peace in¬ 
clines; 

And many a sullen look askance is sent, 

Which for his dame’s annoyance he 
designs; 

And still the more to pleasure him she’s 
bent, 

The more doth he, perverse, her ’luivior 
past resent. 

Ah, me! how much I fear lest pride it 
be! 

But if that pride it be, which thus in¬ 
spires, 

Beware, ye dames, with nice discernment 
see 

Ye quench not too the sparks of nobler 
fires: 







FOKIN Y OF INFANCY AND CHILDHOOD. 


b'l 


Ah, better far than all the muses’ lyres, 

All coward arts, is valor’s gen’rous heat; 

The firm fixt breast which fit and right 
requires, 

Like Vernon’s patriot soul; more justly 
great 

Than craft that pimps for ill, or flow’ry 
false deceit. 

Yet, nursed with skill, what dazzling fruits I 
appear! 

Ev’n now sagacious foresight points to 
show 

A little bench of heedless bishops herer! 

And there a chancellor in embryo, 

Or bard sublime, if bard may e’er be so, 

As Milton, Shakespeare, names that ne’er 
shall die! 

Though now he crawl along the ground 
so low, 

Nor weeting how the muse should soar on 
high, 

Wisheth, poor starv’ling elf! his paper 
kite may fly. 

And this perhaps, who censuring the 
design, 

Low lays the house which that of cards 
doth build, 

Shall Dennis be! if rigid fates incline, 

And many an epic to his rage shall yield ; 

And many a poet quit tli’ Aonian field; 

And, sour’d by age, profound he shall 
appear, 

As he who now with ’sdainful fury 
thrill’d, 

Surveys mine work; and levels many a 
sneer, 

And furls his wrinkly front, and cries, 

“ What stuff is here ?” 

But now Dan Phoebus gains the middle sky, 

And liberty unbars her prison-door; 

And like a rushing torrent out they fly, 

And now the grassy cirque han cover’d 
o’er 

With boist’rous revel-rout and wild 
uproar; 

A thousand ways in wanton rings they run, 

Heav’n shield their short-lived pastimes 
I implore 

For well may freedom, erst so dearly won, 

Appear to British elf more gladsome than 
the sun. 


Enjoy, poor imps! enjoy your sportive 
trade, 

And chase gay flies, and cull the fairest 
flow’rs; 

For when my bones in grass-green sods 
are laid; 

For never may ye taste more careless 
hours 

In knightly castles, or in ladies’ bow’rs. 

Oh, vain to seek delight in earthly thing! 

But most in courts where proud ambi¬ 
tion tow’rs; 

Deluded wight, who weens fair peace can 
spring 

Beneath the pompous dome of kesar or of 
king. 

See in each sprite some various bent appear! 

These rudely carol most incondite lay; 

Those sauntering on the green, with jocund 
leer 

Salute the stranger passing on his way; 

Some builden fragile tenements of clay; 

Some to the standing lake their courses 
bend, 

With pebbles smooth at duck and drake 
to play; 

Thilk to the huxter’s sav’ry cottage tend, 

In pastry kings and queens th’ allotted 
mite to spend. 

Here, as each season yields a different 
store, 

Each season’s stores in order ranged 
been ; 

Apples with cabbage-net y-cover’d o’er, 

Galling full sore th’ unmoney’d wight, 
are seen; 

And goose-b’rie clad in liv’ry red or 
green; 

And here of lovely dye, the cath’rine pear, 

Fine pear! as lovely for thy juice I ween. 

Oh, may no wight e’er penniless come 
there, 

Lest smit with ardent love he pine with 
hopeless care! 

See! cherries here, ere cherries yet abound, 

With thread so white in tempting posies 
tied, 

Scattering like blooming maid their glances 
round, 

With pamper’d look draw little eyes 
aside; 









G2 


FIRESIDE ENCYCLOPEDIA OF POETRY. 


And must be bought, though penury 
betide. 

The plum all azure, and the nut all 
brown, 

And here each season do those cakes 
abide, 

Whose honor’d names th’ inventive city 
own, 

Rend’ring through Britain’s isle Salopia’s 
praises known. 

Admired Salopia! that with venial pride 
Eyes her bright form in Severn’s ambient 
wave, 

Famed for her loyal cares in perils tried, 
Her daughters lovely and her striplings 
brave: 

Ah! midst the rest, may flowers adorn 
his grave, 

Whose art did first these dulcet cates dis¬ 
play ! 

A motive fair to learning’s imps he 
gave, 

Who cheerless o’er her darkling region 
stray; 

Till reason’s morn arise, and light them on 
their way. 

William Shenstone. 

The Children. 

When the lessons and tasks are all ended, 
And the school for the day is dismiss’d, 

The little ones gather around me, 

To bid me good-night and be kiss’d : 

Oh, the little white arms that encircle 
My neck in their tender embrace! 

Oh the smiles that are halos of heaven, 
Shedding sunshine of love on my face ! 

And when they are gone I sit dreaming 
Of my childhood, too lovely to last: 

Of joy that my heart will remember 
While it wakes to the pulse of the past, 

Ere the world and its wickedness made me 
A partner of sorrow and sin ; 

When the glory of God was about me, 
And the glory of gladness within. 


Of the mountains of sin hanging o’er 
them, 

Of the tempest of Fate blowing wild ; 
Oh, there’s nothing on earth half so holy 
As the innocent heart of a child! 

They are idols of hearts and of households; 

They are angels of God in disguise; 

His sunlight still sleeps in their tresses, 
His glory still gleams in their eyes. 
Those truants from home and from 
heaven, 

They have made me more manly and 
* mild, 

And I know now how Jesus could liken 
The kingdom of God to a child. 

I ask not a life for the dear ones, 

All radiant, as others have done, 

But that life may have just enough shadow 
To temper the glare of the sun : 

I would pray God to guard them from evil, 
But my prayer would bound back to 
myself; 

Ah ! a seraph may pray for a sinner, 

But a sinner must pray for himself. 

The twig is so easily bended, 

I have banish’d the rule and the rod ; 

I have taught them the goodness of know¬ 
ledge, 

They have taught me the goodness of 
God ; 

My heart is the dungeon of darkness, 
Where I shut them for breaking a 
rule; 

My frown is sufficient correction ; 

My love is the law of the school. 

I shall leave the old house in the autumn, 
To traverse its threshold no more; 

Ah ! how I shall sigh for the dear ones 
That meet me each morn at the door ! 

I shall miss the “good-nights” and th< 
kisses, 

And the gush of their innocent glee, 
The group on the green, and the flowers 
That are brought every morning for me. 


All my heart grows as weak as a woman’s, 
And the fountains of feeling will flow, 
When I think of the paths steep and stony, 
Where the feet of the dear ones must go; 


I shall miss them at morn and at even, 
Their song in the school and the street; 
I shall miss the low hum of their voices, 
And the tread of their delicate feet. 






POETRY OF INFANCY AND CHILDHOOD. 


63 


When the lessons of life are all ended, 
And Death says, “ The school is dis¬ 
miss’d 1” 

May the little ones gather around me, 

To bid me good-night, and be kiss’d ! 

Charles M. Dickinson. 


The Cry of the Children. 

Do ye hear the children weeping, O my 
brothers, 

Ere the sorrow comes with years ? 

They are leaning their young heads against 
their mothers, 

And that cannot stop their tears. 

The young lambs are bleating in the 
meadows, 

The young birds are chirping in the 
nest, 

The young fawns are playing with the 
shadows, 

The young flowers are blowing toward 
the west— 

But the young, young children, O my 
brothers, 

They are weeping bitterly ! 

They are weeping in the playtime of the 
others, 

In the country of the free. 

Do you question the young children in 
their sorrow 

Why their tears are falling so ? 

The old man may weep for his to-morrow 

Which is lost in Long Ago ; 

The old tree is leafless in the forest, 

The old year is ending in the frost, 

The old wound, if stricken, is the sorest, 
The old hope is hardest to be lost: 

But the young, young children, O my 
brothers, 

Do you ask them why they stand 

Weeping sore before the bosoms of their 
mothers, 

In our happy Fatherland ? 

They look up with their pale and sunken 
faces, 

And their looks are sad to see, 

For the man’s hoary anguish draws and 
presses 

Down the cheeks of infancy; 


“Your old earth,” they say, “is very 
dreary, 

Our young feet,” they say, “are very 
weak; 

Few paces have we taken, yet are weary— 

Our grave-rest is very far to seek: 

Ask the aged why they weep, and not the 
children, 

For the outside earth is cold, 

And we young ones stand without, in our 
bewildering, 

And the graves are for the old. 

“ True,” say the children, “ it may happen 

That we die before our time: 

Little Alice died last year, her grave is 
shapen 

Like a snowball, in the rime. 

; We looked into the pit prepared to take her: 

Was no room for any work in the close 
clay! 

From the sleep wherein she lieth none will 
wake her, 

Crying, ‘ Get up little Alice! it is day.’ 

If you listen by that grave, in sun and 
shower, 

With your ear down, little Alice never 
cries; 

Could we see her face, be sure we should 
not know her, 

For the smile has time for growing in 
her eyes: 

And merry go her moments, lull’d and 
still’d in 

The shroud by the kirk-chime. 

It is good when it happens,” say the 
children, 

“ That we die before our time.” 

Alas, alas, the children ! they are seeking 

Death in life, as best to have: 

They are binding up their hearts away 
from breaking, 

With a cerement from the grave. 

Go out, children, from the mine and from 
the city, 

Sing out, children, as the little thrushes 
do; 

Pluck your handfuls of the meadow-cow¬ 
slips pretty, 

Laugh aloud, to feel your fingers let 
them through! 






FIRESIDE ENCYCLOPAEDIA OF POETRY. 


64 


But they answer, “Are your cowslips of 
the meadows 

Like our weeds a-near the mine ? 

Leave us quiet in the dark of the coal- 
shadows, 

From your pleasures fair and fine ! 

“ For oh,” say the children, “ we are weary, 

And we cannot run or leap; 

If we cared for any meadows, it were 
merely 

To drop down in them and sleep. 

Our knees tremble sorely in the stooping, 

We fall upon our faces, trying to go; 

And, underneath our heavy eyelids droop- 

in o* 

The reddest flower would look as pale as 
snow. 

For all day we drag our burden tiring 

Through the coal-dark, underground; 

Or all day we drive the wheels of iron 

In the factories, round and round. 

u For all day the wheels are droning, turn¬ 
ing ; 

Their wind comes in our faces, 

Till our hearts turn, our heads with jmlses 
burning, 

And the walls turn in their places : 

Turns the sky in the high window blank 
and reeling, 

Turns the long light that drops adown 
the wall, 

Turn the black flies that crawl along the 
ceiling, 

All are turning, all the day, and we with 
all. 

And all day the iron wheels are droning, 

And sometimes we could pray, 

‘ O ye wheels ’ (breaking out in a mad 
moaning) 

‘ Stop ! be silent for to-day !’ ” 

Ay, be silent! Let them hear each other 
breathing 

For a moment, mouth to mouth ! 

Let them touch each other’s hands, in a 
fresh wreathing 

Of their tender human youth ! 

Let them feel that this cold metallic mo¬ 
tion 

Is not all the life God fashions or re¬ 
veals ; 


Let them prove their living souls against 
the notion 

That they live in you, or under you, O 
wheels! 

Still, all day, the iron wheels go onward, 

Grinding life down from its mark ; 

And the children’s souls, which God is 
calling sunward, 

Spin on blindly in the dark. 

Now tell the poor young children, O my 
brothers, 

To look up to Him and pray; 

So the blessed One who blesseth all the 
others, 

WilFbless them another day. 

They answer, “ Who is God, that He should 
hear us, 

While the rushing of the iron wheels is 
stirr’d ? 

When we sob aloud, the human creatures 
near us 

Pass by, hearing not, or answer not a 
word. 

And we hear not (for the wheels in their 
resounding) 

Strangers speaking at the door : 

Is it likely God, with angels singing round 
Him, 

Hears our weeping any more ? 

“Two words, indeed, of praying we re¬ 
member, 

And at midnight’s hour of harm, 

‘ Our Father,’ looking upward in the cham¬ 
ber, 

We say softly for a charm. 

We know no other words except ‘ Our 
Father,’ 

And we think that, in some pause of 
angels’ song, 

God may pluck them with the silence 
sweet to gather, 

And hold both within His right hand 
which is strong. 

‘ Our Father !’ If He heard us He would 
surely 

(For they call Him good and mild) 

Answer, smiling down the steep world very 
purely, 

‘ Come and rest with me, my child.’ 






POETRY OF INFANCY AND CHILDHOOD. 


65 


“But no!” say the children, weeping 
faster, 

“ He is speechless as a stone : 

And they tell us of His image is the master, 

Who commands us to work on. 

Go to!” say the children,—“ up in heaven, 

Dark, wheel-like, turning clouds are all 
we find. 

Do not mock us; grief has made us un¬ 
believing : 

We look up for God, but tears have 
made us blind.” 

Do you hear the children weeping and 
disproving, 

O my brothers, what ye preach'? 

For God’s possible is taught by His world’s 
loving, 

And the children doubt of each. 

And well may the children weep before you! 

They are weary ere they run ; 

They have never seen the sunshine, nor the 
glory 

Which is brighter than the sun. 

They know the grief of man, without its 
wisdom; 

They sink in man’s despair, without its 
calm ; 

Are slaves, without the liberty in Christ- 
dom, 

Are martyrs, by the pang without the 
palm : 

Are worn as if with age, yet unretrievingly 

The harvest of its memories cannot 
reap,— 

Are orphans of the earthly love and heav¬ 
enly. 

Let them weep ! let them weep ! 

They look up with their pale and sunken 
faces, 

And their look is dread to see, 

For they ’mind you of their angels in high 
places, 

With eyes turned on Deity. 

“ How long,” they say, “ how long, O cruel 
nation, 

Will you stand, to move the world, on a 
child’s heart,— 

Stifle down with a mailed heel its palpita¬ 
tion, 

And tread onward to your throne amid 
the mart ? 


Our blood splashes upward, 0 gold- 
heapcr, 

And your purple shows your path ! 
But the child’s sob in the silence curses 
deeper 

Than the strong man in his wrath.” 

Elizabeth Barrett Browning. 


To a Highland Girl. 

(At Inversneyde, upon Loch Lomond.) 
Sweet Highland Girl, a very shower 
Of beauty is thy earthly dower! 

Twice seven consenting years have shed 
Their utmost bounty on thy head: 

And, these gray Rocks; this household 
Lawn ; 

These Trees, a veil just half withdrawn; 
This fall of water, that doth make 
A murmur near the silent Lake ; 

This little Bay, a quiet Road 
That holds in shelter thy Abode ; 

In truth, together do ye seem 
Like something fashion’d in a dream ; 
Such Forms as from their covert peep 
When earthly cares are laid asleep ! 

Yet, dream and vision as thou art, 

T bless thee with a human heart: 

God shield thee to thy latest years! 

I neither know thee nor thy peers; 

And yet my eyes are fill’d with tears. 

With earnest feeling I shall pray 
For thee when I am far away : 

For never saw I mien or face, 

In which more plainly I could trace 
Benignity and home-bred sense 
Ripening in perfect innocence. 

Here scatter’d like a random seed, 

Remote from men, thou dost not need 
The embarrass’d look of shy distress, 

And maidenly shamefacedness: 

Thou wear’st upon thy forehead clear 
The freedom of a Mountaineer : 

A face with gladness overspread ! 

Soft smiles by human kindness bred ! 

And seemliness complete, that sways 
Thy courtesies, about thee plays : 

With no restraint, but such as springs 
From quick and eager visitings 
Of thoughts that lie beyond the reach 
Of thy few words of English speech : 










/PRESIDE ENCYCLOPAEDIA OF POETRY. 


66 


A bondage sweetly brook’d, a strife 
That gives thy gestures grace and life ! 

So have I, not unmoved in mind, 

Seen birds of tempest-loving kind, 

Thus beating up against the wind. 

What hand but would a garland cull 
For thee who art so beautiful? 

Oh happy pleasure ! here to dwell 
' Beside thee in some heathy dell; 

Adopt your homely ways, and dress, 

A Shepherd, thou a Shepherdess ! 

But 1 could frame a wish for thee 
More like a grave reality : 

Thou art to me but as a wave 
Of the wild sea: and I would have 
Some claim upon thee, if I could, 

Though but of common neighborhood. 
What joy to hear thee, and to see ! 

Thy elder Brother I would be, 

Thy Father, anything to thee ! 

Now thanks to Heaven ! that of its grace 
Hath led me to this lonely place. 

Joy have I had ; and going hence 
I bear away my recompense. 

In spots like these it is we prize 
Our Memory, feel that she hath eyes : 
Then, why should I be loth to stir? 

I feel this place was made for her; 

To give new pleasure like the past, 
Continued long as life shall last. 

Nor am I loth, though pleased at heart, 
Sweet Highland Girl! from thee to part; 
For I, methinks, till I grow old, 

As fair before me shall behold, 

As I do now, the Cabin small, 

The Lake, the Bay, the Waterfall; 

And thee, the Spirit of them all! 

William Wordsworth. 

Maidenhood. 

Maiden ! with the meek, brown eves, 
In whose orbs a shadow lies 
Like the dusk in evening skies! 

Thou whose locks outshine the sun, 
Golden tresses, wreath’d in one, 

As the braided streamlets run ! 

Standing, with reluctant feet, 

Where the brook and river meet, 
Womanhood and childhood fleet! 


Gazing, with a timid glance, 

On the brooklet’s swift advance. 

On the river’s broad expanse 1 

Deep and still, that gliding stream 
Beautiful to thee must seem, 

As the river of a dream. 

Then why pause with indecision, 

When bright angels in thy vision 
Beckon thee to fields Elysian ? 

Seest thou shadows sailing by, 

As the dove, with startled eye, 

! Sees the falcon’s shadow fly? 

i 

; Hearest thou voices on the shore, 
i That our ears perceive no more, 

Deafen’d by the cataract’s roar? 

O thou child of many prayers! 

Life hath quicksands,—life hath snares 1 
Care and age come unawares. 

Like the swell of some sweet tune, 
Morning rises into noon, 

May glides onward into June. 

Childhood is the bough, where slumber’d 
Birds and blossoms many-number’d :— 
Age, that bough with snows encumber’d. 

Gather, then, each flower that grows, 
When the young heart overflows, 

To embalm that tent of snows. 

Bear a lily in thy hand; 

Gates of brass cannot withstand 
One touch of that magic wand. 

Bear through sorrow, wrong, and ruth, 

In thy heart the dew of youth, 

On thy lips the smile of truth. 

Oh, that dew, like balm, shall steal 
Into wounds that cannot heal, 

| Even as sleep our eyes doth seal; 

And that smile, like sunshine, dart 
Into many a sunless heart, 

For a smile of God thou art. 

Henry Wadsworth Longfellow 









POETRY OF INFANCY A El) CHILD HOOD. 


f>7 


The Blind Boy. 

Oh, say what is that thing call’d Light, 
Which I must ne’er enjoy? 

What are the blessings of the sight, 

Oh, tell your poor blind boy! 

You talk of wondrous things you see, 
You say the sun shines bright; 

I feel him warm, but how can he 
Or make it day or night? 

My day or night myself I make 
Whene’er I sleep or play; 

And could I ever keep awake 
With me ’twere always day. 

With heavy sighs I often hear 
You mourn my hapless woe; 

But sure with patience I can bear 
A loss I ne’er can know. 

Then let not what I cannot have 
My cheer of mind destroy ; 

Whilst thus I sing, I am a king, 
Although a poor blind boy. 

Colley C'ibeer. 


Hows my Boy? 

Ho, sailor of the sea! 

How’s my boy—my boy?” 

“ What’s your boy’s name, good wife, 

And in what good ship sailed he?” 

“ My boy John—- 
He that went to sea— 

What care I for the ship, sailor? 

My boy’s my boy to me. 

“ You come back from sea, 

And not know my John? 

I might as well have ask’d some lands¬ 
man 

Yonder down in the town. 

There’s not an ass in all the parish 
But knows my John 

**How’s my boy—my boy? 

And unless you let me know, 

I’ll swear you are no sailor, 

Blue jacket or no, 

Brass buttons or no, sailor, 

Anchor and crown or no! 

Sure his ship was the ‘Jolly Briton’”— 

“ Speak low, woman, speak low!” 


I “ And why should I speak low, sailor 
About my own boy John ? 

If 1 was loud as I am proud 
I’d sing him over the town! 

Why should 1 speak low, sailor?” 

“That good ship went down.” 

“ How’s my boy—my boy ? 

What care I for the ship, sailor, 

I was never aboard her? 

Be she afloat or be she aground, 

Sinking or swimming, I’ll be bound 
Her owners can afford her! 

I say, how’s my John?” 

“ Every man on board went down, 

Every man aboard her.” 

“ How’s my boy—my boy ? 

What care I for the men, sailor? 

I’m not their mother— 

How’s my boy—my boy ? 

Tell me of him and no other ! 

How’s my boy—my boy?” 

Sydney Dobell. 

7 'he Night Before Christmas. 

Twas the night before Christmas, when 
all through the house 

Not a creature was stirring, not even a 
mouse; 

The stockings were hung by the chimney 
with care, 

In hopes that St. Nicholas soon would be 
there; 

The children were nestled all snug in their 
beds, 

While visions of sugar-plums danced 
through their heads; 

And mamma in her kerchief, and I in my 
cap, 

Had just settled our brains for a long win¬ 
ter’s nap, 

When out on the lawn there arose such a 
clatter, 

I sprang from my bed to see what was the 
matter. 

Away to the window I flew like a flash, 

Tore open the shutters and threw up the 
sash. 

The moon, on the breast of the new-fallen 
snow, 

Gave a lustre of mid-day to objects below ; 










68 


FIRESIDE ENCYCLOPAEDIA OF POETRY. 


When what to my wondering eyes should 
appear, 

But a miniature sleigh, and eight tiny 
reindeer, 

With a little old driver, so lively and 
quick, 

I knew in a moment it must be St. Nick. 

More rapid than eagles his coursers they 
came, 

And he whistled, and shouted, and call’d 
them by name : 

“Now, Dasher! now, Dancer! now, Prhn- 
cer! now, Vixen ! 

On, Comet! on, Cupid! on, Donder and 
Blitzen!— 

To the top of the porch, to the top of the 
wall! 

Now, dash away, dash away, dash away all!” 

As dry leaves that before the wild hurri¬ 
cane fly, 

When they meet with an obstacle, mount 
to the sky, 

So, up to the house-top the coursers they j 
flew, 

With the sleigh full of toys, and St. Nich¬ 
olas too. 

And then in a twinkling T heard on the roof 

The prancing and pawing of each little ; 
hoof. 

As I drew in mv head, and was turning ! 
around, 

Down the chimney St. Nicholas came with 
a bound. 

He was dress’d all in fur from his head to 
his foot, 

And his clothes were all tarnish’d with 
ashes and soot; 

A bundle of toys he had flung on his back, | 

And he look’d like a peddler just opening 
his pack. 

His eyes how they twinkled! his dimples | 
how merry! 

His cheeks were like roses, his nose like a 
cherry, 

His droll little mouth was drawn up like a 
bow, ' 

And the beard on his chin was as white as 
the snow. 

The stump of a pipe he held tight in his 
teeth, 

And the smoke, it encircled his head like 
a wreath. 


He had a broad face and a little round 
belly 

That shook, when he laugh’d, like a bowl 
full of jelly. 

He was chubby and plump—a right jolly 
old elf— 

And I laugh’d when I saw him, in spite 
of myself. 

A wink of his eye, and a twist of his head, 

Soon gave me to know I had nothing to 
dread. 

He spake not a word, but went straight to 
his work, 

And filled all the stockings; then turn’d 
with a jerk, 

And laying his finger aside of his nose, 

And giving a nod, up the chimney he rose. 

He sprang to his sleigh, to his team gave 
a whistle, 

And away they all flew like the down of a 
thistle; 

But I heard him exclaim, ere he drove out 
of sight, 

“Happy Christmas to all, and to all a 
good-night !” 

Clement C. Moore. 

Introduction to “Songs of 
Innocence» 

Piping down the valleys wild, 

Piping songs of pleasant glee, 

On a cloud I saw a child, 

And he laughing said to me: 

“ Pipe a song about a lamb !” 

Bo I piped with merry cheer. 

“ Piper, pipe that song again 
So I piped; he wept to hear. 

“ Drop thy pipe, thy happy pipe; 

Sing thy songs of happy cheer !” 

So I sang the same again, 

While he wept with joy to hear. 

“ Piper, sit thee down and write 
In a book, that all may read.” 

So he vanish’d from my sight; 

And I pluck’d a hollow reed, 

And I made a rural pen, 

And I stain’d the water clear. 

And I wrote my happy songs 
Every child may joy to hear. 

William Blake. 








LULLABY 


“Rest, rest, on mother’s breast, 

Father will come to thee soon.”— Page 32. 
















By special permission of Owen Zimmerman, Photographer. 

TO A CHILD 

“ Love thy mother, little one! ”—Page J5. 




POETRY OF INFANCY AND CHILDHOOD. 


69 


The May Queen. 

You must wake and call me early, call me 
early, mother dear; 

To-morrow ’ill be the happiest time of all 
the glad New-year; 

Of all the glad New-year, mother, the 
maddest, merriest day ; 

For I’m to be Queen o’ the May, mother, 
I’m to be Queen o’ the May. 

There's many a black black eye, they say, 
but none so bright as mine ; 

There’s Margaret and Mary, there’s Kate 
and Caroline: 

But none so fair as little Alice in all the 
land, they say, 

So I’m to be Queen o’ the May, mother, 
I’m to be Queen o’ the May. 

I sleep so sound all night, mother, that I 
shall never wake, 

If you do not call me loud, when the day 
begins to break: 

But I must gather knots of flowers, and 
buds and garlands gay, 

For I’m to be Queen o’ the May, mother, 
I’m to be Queen of the May. 

As I came up the valley, whom think ye 
should I see, 

But Robin leaning on the bridge beneath 
the hazel tree ? 

lie thought of that sharp look, mother, I 
gave him yesterday— 

But I’m to be Queen o’ the May, mother, 
I’m to be Queen o’ the May. - 

He thought I was a ghost, mother, for I 
was all in white, 

And I ran by him without speaking, like 
a flash of light. 

They call me cruel-hearted, but I care not 
what they say, 

For I’m to be Queen o’ the May, mother, 
I’m to be Queen o’ the May. 

They say he’s dying all for love, but that 
can never be: 

They say his heart is breaking, mother— 
what is that to me ? 

There’s many a bolder lad ’ill woo me any 
summer day, 

And I’m to be Queen o’ the May, mother, 
I’m to be Queen o’ the May. 


Little Ettie shall go with me to-morrow to 
the green, 

And you’ll he there too, mother, to see me 
made the queen ; 

For the shepherd lads on every side’ill 
come from far away, 

And I’m to be Queen o’ the May, mother, 
I’m to be Queen o’ the May. 

The honeysuckle round the porch has 
wov’n its wavy bowers, 

And by the meadow-trenches blow the 
faint sweet cuckoo-flowers; 

And the wild marsh-marigold shines like 
fire in swamps and hollows gray, 

And I’m to be Queen o’ the May, mother. 
I’m to be Queen o’ the May. 

The night winds come and go, mother, 
upon the meadow grass, 

And the happy stars above them seem to 
brighten as they pass; 

There will not be a drop of rain the whole 
of the livelong day, 

And I’m to be Queen o’ the May, mother, 
I’m to be Queen o’ the May. 

All the valley, mother, ’ill be fresh and 
green and still, 

And the cowslip and the crowfoot are over 
all the hill, 

And the rivulet in the flowery dale ’ill 
merrily glance and play, 

For I’m to be Queen o’ the May, mother, 
I’m to be Queen o’ the May. 

So you must wake and call me early, call 
me early, mother dear, 

To-morrow ’ill be the happiest time of all 
the glad New-year : 

To-morrow ’ill be of all the year the mad¬ 
dest, merriest day, 

For I’m to be Queen o’ the May, mother, 
I’m to be Queen o’ the May. 

New-Year’s Eye. 

If you’re waking call me early, call me 
early, mother dear, 

For I would see the sun rise upon the glad 
New-year. 

It is the last New-year that I shall ever see, 

Then you may lay me low i’ the mould and 
think no more of me. 









W 


FIRESIDE ENCYCLOPAEDIA OF POETRY. 


To night I saw the sun set: he set and left 
behind 

The good old year, the dear old time, and 
all my peace of mind; 

And the New-year’s coming up, mother, 
but I shall never see 

The blossom on the blackthorn, the leaf 
upon the tree. 

Last May we made a crown of flowers: we 
had a merry day; 

Beneath the hawthorn on the green they 
made me Queen of May ; 

And we danced about the may-pole and in 
the hazel copse, 

Till Charles’s Wain came out above the 
tall white chimney-tops. 

There’s not a flower on all the hills: the 
frost is on the pane: 

I only wish to live till the snow-drops come 
again: 

I wish the snow would melt and the sun 
come out on high: 

I long to sec a flower so before the day I 
die. 

The building rook ’ill caw from the windy 
tall elm tree, 

And the tufted plover pipe along the fallow 
lea, 

And the swallow ’ill come back again with 
summer o’er the wave, 

But 1 shall lie alone, mother, within the 
mouldering grave. 

Upon the chancel-casement, and upon that 
grave of mine, 

In the early early morning the summer 
sun ’ill shine, 

Before the red cock crows from the farm 
upon the hill, 

When you are warm-asleep, mother, and 
all the world is still. 

When the flowers come again, mother, 
beneath the waning light 

You’ll never see me more in the long gray 
fields at night; 

When from the dry dark wold the summer 
airs blow cool 

On the oat-grass and the sword-grass, and 
the bulrush in the pool. 


You’ll bury me, my mother, just beneath 
the hawthorn shade, 

And you’ll come sometimes and see me 
where 1 am lowly laid. 

I shall not forget you, mother; I shall hear 
you when you pass, 

With your feet above my head in the long 
and pleasant grass. 

I have been wild and wayward, but you’ll 
forgive me now; 

You’ll kiss me, my own mother, and forgive 
me ere I go; 

Nay, nay, you must not weep, nor let your 
grief be wild, 

You should not fret for me, mother, you 
have another child. 

If I can I’ll come again, mother, from out 
my resting-place; 

Tho’ you’ll not see me, mother, I shall look 
upon your face; 

Tho’ I cannot speak a word, I shall hearken 
what you say, 

And be often, often with you when you 
think I’m far away. 

Good-night, good-night, when I have said 
good-night for evermore, 

And you see me carried out from the 
threshold of the door; 

Don’t let Ettie come to see me till my grave 
be growing green: 

She’ll be a better child to you than ever l 
have been. 

She’ll And my garden-tools upon the gran¬ 
ary floor: 

Let her take ’em: they are hers: I shall 
never garden more: 

But tell her, when I’m gone, to train the 
rose-bush that I set 

About the parlor-window, and the box of 
mignonette. 

Good-night, sw r eet mother : call me before 
the day is born. 

All night I lie awake, but I fall asleep at 
morn; 

But I would sec the sun rise upon the glad 
Now-year, 

So, if you're waking, call me, call me early, 
mother dear. 





POETRY OF INFANCY AND CHILDHOOD. 


71 


Conclusion. 

I thcught to pass away before, and yet 
alive I am; 

And in the fields all round I hear the 
bleating of the lamb. 

How sadly, I remember, rose the morning 
of the year! 

To die before the snow-drop came, and now 
the violet’s here. 

Hh, sweet is the new violet, that comes be¬ 
neath the skies, 

And sweeter is the young lamb’s voice to 
me that cannot rise, 

And sweet is all the land about, and all 
the flowers that blow, 

And sweeter far is death than life to me 
that long to go. 

It seem’d so hard at first, mother, to leave 
the blessed sun, 

And now it seems as hard to stay; and yet, 
H is will be done! 

But still I think it can’t be long before I 
find release; 

And that good man, the clergyman, has 
told me words of peace. 

Oh, blessings on his kindly voice and on his 
silver hair, 

And blessings on his whole life long, until 
he meet me there! 

< >h. blessings on his kindly heart and on his 
silver head! 

A thousand times I blest him, as he knelt 
beside my bed. 


All in the wild March-morning I heard 
the angels call ; 

It was when the moon was setting, and the 
dark was over all; 

The trees began to whisper, and the wind 
began to roll. 

And in the wild March-morning I heard 
them call my soul. 

For lying broad awake 1 thought of you 
and Effie dear; 

I saw you sitting in the house, and I no 
longer here; 

With all my strength I pray’d for both, 
and so I felt resign’d, 

And up the valley came a swell of music 
on the wind. 

I thought that it was fancy, and I listen'd 
in my bed, 

And then did something speak to me—I 
know not what was said, 

For great delight and shuddering took 
hold of all my mind, 

And up the valley came again the music 
on the wind. 

But you were sleeping, and I said, “ It’s 
not for them, it’s mine;” 

And if it comes three times, I thought, I 
take it for a sign. 

And once again it came, and close beside 
the window-bars, 

Then seem’d to go right up to heaven and 
die among the stars. 


He taught me all the mercy, for he show’d 
me all the sin. 

Now, tho’ my lamp was lighted late, there’s 
One will let me in ; 

Nor would I now be well, mother, again, I 
if that could be, 

For my desire is but to pass to Him that 
died for me. 

I did not hear the dog howl, mother, or the 
death-watch beat, 

There came a sweeter token when the night 
and morning meet; 

But sit beside my bed, mother, and put j 
your hand in mine, 

And Effie on the other side, and 1 will tell 
the sign. 


So now I think my time is near. I trust 
it is. I know 

The blessed music went that way my soul 
will have to go. 

And for myself, indeed, I care not if I go 
to-day, 

But, Effie, you must comfort her when I 
am pass’d away. 

And say to Robin a kind word, and tell 
him not to fret; 

There’s many a worthier than I would 
make him happy yet. 

If I had lived—I cannot tell—I might 
have been his wife, 

But all these things have ceased to be, with 
my desire of life. 







FIRESIDE ENCYCLOPEDIA OF POETRY. 


*> 


Oli, look! the sun begins to rise, the heav¬ 
ens are in a glow ; 

He shines upon a hundred fields, and all 
of them 1 know. 

And tlrere I move no longer now, and 
there his light may shine— 

Wild flowers in the valley for other hands 
than mine. 

Oh, sweet and strange it seems to me, that 
ere this day is done 

The voice, that now is speaking, may be 
beyond the sun, 

For ever and for ever with those just souls 
and true; 

And what is life that we should moan ? 
why make we such ado? 

For ever and for ever, all in a blessed 
home, 

And there to wait a little while till you 
and Eflie come, 

To lie within the light of God, as 1 lie 
upon your breast, 

And the wicked cease from troubling, and 
the weary are at rest. 

Alfred Tennyson. 

Good-night and Good-morning. 

A FAIR little girl sat under a tree, 

Sewing as long as her eyes could see; 

Then smoothed her work and folded it 
right, 

And said, “ Dear work, good-night, good¬ 
night!” 

Such a number of rooks came over her 
head, 

Crying “ Caw ! caw !” on their way to bed, 

She said, as she watched their curious 
flight, 

“ Little black things, good-night, good¬ 
night!” 

The horses neighed, and the oxen lowed, 

The sheep’s “ Bleat! bleat!” came over the 
road ; 

All seeming to say, with a quiet delight, 

“Good little girl, good-night, good-night!” 


She did not say to the sun, “Good-night!” 
Though she saw him there like a ball of 
light; 

For she knew he had God’s time to keep 
All over the world, and never could sleep. 

The tall pink foxglove bowed his head; 
The violets curtsied, and went to bed ; 

And good little Lucy tied up her hair, 

And said, on her knees, her favorite prayer. 

And while on her pillow she softly lay, 

She knew nothing more till again it was 
day; 

And all things said to the beautiful sun, 
“Good-morning, good-morning! our work 
is begun.” 

Richard Monckton Milnes (Lord Houghton). 

Little Boy Blue. 

The little toy dog is covered with dust, 

But sturdy and stanch he stands; 

And the little toy soldier is red with rust, 
And his musket molds in his hands. 
Time was when the little toy dog was new, 
And the soldier was passing fair , 

And that was the time when our Little Boy 
Blue 

Kissed them and put them there. 

“Now, don’t you go till I come,” he said, 

“ And don’t you make any noise! ” 

So, toddling off tolas trundle-bed, 

He dreamt of his pretty toys ; 

And, as he was dreaming, an angel song 
Awakened our Little Boy Blue— 

Oh ! the years are many, the years are long, 
But the little toy friends arc true ! 

Aye, faithful to Little Boy Blue they stand, 
Each in the same old place— 

Awaiting the touch of a little hand, 

The smile of a little face; 

And they wonder, as waiting the long years 
through 

In the dust of that little chair, 

What has become of our Little Boy Blue, 
Since he kissed them and put them there. 

Eugene Field 







Poems 


OF 

Memory and Retrospection. 


I Remember , I Remember. 

I remember, I remember, 

The house where I was boru, 

The little window where the sun 
Came peeping in at morn : 

He never came a wink too soon, - 
Nor brought too long a day ; 

But now, I often wish the night 
Had borne my breath away. 

I remember, I remember, 

The roses, red and white ; 

The violets and the lily-cups, 

Those flowers made of light! 

The lilacs where the robin built, 

And where my brother set 

The laburnum on his birthday,— 

The tree is living yet! 

I remember, I remember, 

Where I was used to swing; 

And thought the air must rush as fresh 
To swallows on the wing : 

My spirit flew in feathers then, 

That is so heavy now, 

And summer pools could hardly cool 
The fever on my brow! 

1 remember, I remember, 

The fir trees dark and high; 

I used to think their slender tops 
Were close against the sky: 

It was a childish ignorance, 

But now ’tis little joy 

To know I’m farther oft from heaven 
Than when I was a boy. 

Thomas Hood. 


The Old Arm-Chair. 

I love it, I love it; and who shall dare 
To chide me for loving that old arm-chair? 
I’ve treasured it long as a sainted prize; 
I’ve bedew’d it with tears, and embalm’d 
it with sighs. 

’Tis bound by a thousand bands to my 
heart; 

Not a tie will break, not a link will start. 
Would ye learn the spell ?—a mother sat 
there; 

And a sacred thing is that old arm-chair. 

In childhood’s hour I linger’d near 
The hallow’d seat with listening ear; 

And gentle words that mother would give 
To fit me to die, and teach me to live. 

She told me shame would never betide, 
With truth for my creed and God for my 
guide; 

She taught me to lisp my earliest prayer, 
As I knelt beside that old arm-chair. 

I sat and watch’d her many a day, 

When her eye grew dim, and her locks 
were gray: 

And I almost worshipp’d her when she 
smiled, 

And turn’d from her Bible, to bless her 
child. 

Years roll’d on : but the last one sped- - 
My idol was shatter’d; my earth-star fled : 
I learnt how much the heart can bear, 
When I saw her die in that old arm-chair. 

’Tis past, ’tis past, but I gaze on it now 
With quivering breath and throbbing 
brow: 


78 




i 


FIRESIDE EE CYCLOPEDIA OF POETRY. 


’Twas there she nursed me ; ’twas there 
she died: 

And Memory flows with lava tide. 

Sav it is folly, and deem me weak, 

While the scalding drops start down my 
cheek; 

But I love it, I love it; and cannot tear 
My soul from a mother’s old arm-chair. 

Eliza Cook. 

-K>«- 

Rock me to Sleep. 

Backward, turn backward, O Time, in 
your flight, 

Make me a child again just for to-night! 
Mother, come back from the echoless shore, 
Take me again to your heart as of yore; 
Kiss from my forehead the furrows of care, 
Smooth the few silver threads out of my 
hair; 

Over my slumbers your loving watch 
keep;— 

Rock me to sleep, mother,—rock me to 
sleep! 

Backward, flow backward, O tide of the 
years ! 

I am so weary of toil and of tears,— 

Toil without recompense,, tears all in 
vain,— 

Take them, and give me mv childhood 
again! 

I have grown weary of dust and decay,— 
Weary of flinging my soul-wealth away; 
Weary of sowing for others to reap ;— 
Rock me to sleep, mother,—rock me to 
sleep! 

fired of the hollow, the base, the untrue, 
Mother! 0 mother! my heart calls for you! 
Many a summer the grass has grown green, 
Blossom’d, and faded our faces between, 
Yet with strong yearning and passionate 
pain 

Long I to-night for your presence again, 
come from the silence so long and so 
deep;— 

Rock me to sleep, mother,—rock me to 
sleep! 

•/ 

< >ver my heart, in the days that are flown, 
No love like mother-love ever has shone; 
No other worship abides and endures,— 
Faithful, unselfish, and patient like yours : 


None like a mother can charm away pain 

From the sick soul and the world-wearv 
brain. 

Slumber’s soft calms o’er my heavy lids 
creep;— 

Rock me to sleep, mother,—rock me to 
sleep! 

Come, let your brown hair, just lighted 
with gold, 

Fall on your shoulders again as of old ; 

Let it drop over my forehead to-night, 

Shading my faint eyes away from the light; 

For with its sunny-edged shadows once 
more 

Haply will throng the sweet visions of 
yore; 

Lovingly, softly, its bright billows sweep;— 

Rock me to sleep, mother,—rock me to 
sleep! 

Mother, dear mother, the years have been 
long 

Since 1 last listen’d your lullaby song: 

Sing, then, and unto my soul it shall seem 

Womanhood’s years have been only a 
dream. 

Clasp’d to your heart in a loving embrace, 

With your light lashes just sweeping my 
face, 

Never hereafter to wake or to weep ;— 

Rock me to sleep, mother,—rock me to 
sleep! 

Elizabeth Akers Allen. 

The Old Oaken Bucket. 

How dear to this heart are the scenes of 
my childhood, 

When fond recollection presents them 
to view! 

The orchard, the meadow, the deep-tangled 
wild wood, 

And every loved spot which my infancy 
knew ; 

The wide-spreading pond, and the mill 
which stood by it, 

The bridge and the rock where the cat¬ 
aract fell; 

The cot of my father, the dairy-house nigh 

it, 

And e’en the rude bucket which hung 
in the well: 








POEMS OF MEMORY AND RETROSPECTION. 


The old oaken bucket, the iron-bound 
bucket, 

The moss-cover’d bucket, which hung in 
the well. 

That moss-cover’d vessel 1 hail as a 
treasure; 

For often, at noon, when return’d from 
the field, 

I found it the source of an exquisite 
pleasure, 

The purest and sweetest that Nature can 
yield. 

How ardent I seized it, with hands that 
were glowing! 

And quick to the white-pebbled bottom 
it fell ; 

Then soon, with the emblem of truth over¬ 
flowing, 

And dripping with coolness, it rose from 
the well: 

The. old oaken bucket, the iron-bound 
bucket, 

The moss-cover’d bucket arose from the 
well. 

How sweet from the green mossy brim to 
receive it, 

As poised on the curb it inclined to my 
lips! 

Not a full blushing goblet could tempt me 
to leave it, 

Though fill’d with the nectar that Jupi¬ 
ter sips. 

And now, far removed from the loved 
situation, 

The tear of regret will intrusively swell, 

As fancy reverts to my father’s planta¬ 
tion, 

And sighs tor the bucket which hangs 
in the well: 

The old oaken bucket, the iron-bound 
bucket, 

The moss-cover’d bucket, which hangs in 
the well. 

Samuel Woodworth. 

Woodman, Spare that Treei 

Woodman, spare that tree! 

Touch not a single bough! 

In youth it shelter’d me, 

And I’ll protect it now. 


’Twas my forefather’s hand 
That placed it near his cot: 

There, woodman, let it stand, 

Thy axe shall harm it not! 

That old familiar tree, 

Whose glory and renown 
Are spread o’er land and sea— 

And would’st thou hew it down? 
Woodman, forbear thy stroke ! 

Cut not its earth-bound ties; 

Oh, spare that aged oak, 

Now towering to the skies! 

When but an idle boy, 

I sought its grateful shade; 

In all their gushing joy 
Here, too, my sisters play’d. 

My mother kiss’d me here; 

My father press’d my hand— 

Forgive this foolish tear, 

But let that old oak stand! 

My heart-strings round thee cling, 

Close as thy bark, old friend ! 

Here shall the wild bird sing, 

And still thy branches bend. 

Old tree ! the storm still brave! 

And, woodman, leave the spot; 

While I’ve a hand to save, 

Thy axe shall harm it not! 

George P. Morris. 

The Stranger on the Sill. 

Between the broad fields of wheat and 
corn 

Is the lowly home where I was born ; 

The peach tree leans against the wall, 

And the woodbine wanders over all; 

There is the shaded doorway still, 

But a stranger’s foot has cross’d the sill. 

There is the barn, and, as of yore, 

I can smell the hay from the open door, 
And see the busy swallows throng, 

And hear the pewee’s mournful song; 

But the stranger comes — oh, painful 
proof!— 

His sheaves are piled to the heated roof. 

There is the orchard—the very trees 
Where my childhood knew long hours of 
ease. 






FIRESIDE ENCYCLOPAEDIA OF POETRY. 


76 


And watch’d the shadowy moments run 
Till my life imbibed more shade than sun: 
The swing from the bough still sweeps the 
air, 

But the stranger’s children are swinging 
there. 

There bubbles the shady spring below, 
With its bulrush brook where the hazels 
grow ; 

Twas there I found the calamus root. 

And watched the minnows poise and shoot, 
And heard the robin lave his wing:— 

But the stranger’s bucket is at the spring. 

O ye who daily cross the sill, 

Step lightly, for I love it still; 

And when you crowd the old barn eaves, 
Then think what countless harvest sheaves 
Have pass’d within that scented door 
To gladden eyes that are no more. 

Deal kindly with these orchard trees; 

And when your children crowd your knees, 
Their sweetest fruit they shall impart, 

As if old memories stirr’d their heart: 

To youthful sport still leave the swing, 
And in sweet reverence hold the spring. 

Thomas Bit-ha nan Bead. 

The old Clock ox the Stairs. 

Somewhat back from the village street 
Stands the old-fashion’d country-seat. 
Across its antique portico 
Tall poplar trees their shadows throw : 
And from its station in the hall 
An ancient timepiece says to all,— 

“ Forever—never! 

Never—forever!” 

Halfway up the stairs it stands, 

And points and beckons with its hands 
From its case of massive oak, 

Like a monk, who, under his cloak, 
Crosses himself, and sighs, alas ! 

With sorrowful voice to all who pass,— 

“ Forever—never! 

Never—forever!” 

By day its voice is low and light; 

But in the silent dead of night, 

Distinct as a passing footstep’s fall, 

It echoes along the vacant hall, 


Along the ceiling, along the floor, 

And seems to say, at each chamber-door,— 
“ Forever—never ! 

Never—forever!” 

Through days of sorrow and of mirth, 
Through days of death and days of birth, 
Through every swift vicissitude 
Of changeful time, unchanged it has stood. 
And as if, like God, it all things saw, 

It calmly repeats those words of awe,— 

“ Forever—never ! . 

Never—forever!” 

In that mansion used to be 
Free-hearted Hospitality ; 

His great fires up the chimney roar’d ; 

The stranger feasted at his board ; 

But, like the skeleton at the feast, 

That warning timepiece never ceased,— 

“ Forever—never ! 

Never—forever!” 

There groups of merry children play’d, 
There youths and maidens dreaming 
stray’d ; 

O precious hours ! O golden prime, 

And affluence of love and time ! 

Even as a miser counts his gold, 

Those hours the ancient timepiece told,— 
“ Forever—never ! 

Never—forever!” 

From that chamber, clothed in white, 

The bride came forth on her wedding- 
night ; 

There, in that silent room below, 

The dead lav in his shroud of snow ; 

And in the hush that follow’d the prayer 
Was heard the old clock on the stair,— 

“ Forever—never ! 

Never—forever!” 

All are scatter’d now and fled, 

Some are married, some are dead ; 

And when I ask with throbs of pain, 

“ Ah ! when shall they all meet again, 

As in the days long since gone by?” 

The ancient timepiece makes reply,— 

“ Forever—never ! 

Never—forever!” 

Never here, forever there, 

Where all parting, pain, and care, 







THE OLD CLOCK ON THE STAIRS IN LONGFELLOW S HOUSE 

“ Halfway up the stairs it stands 
And points and beckons with its hands .”—Page 76. 

















LOVE 


“ By vows you’re mine, by love is yours 
A heart that cannot wander .”—Page 795 








POEMS OF MEMORY AND RETROSPECTION. 


11 


And death, and time shall disappear,— 

Forever there, but never here ! 

The horologe of Eternity 

Sayeth this incessantly,—• 

“ Forever—never ! 

Never—forever!” 

Henry Wadsworth Longfellow. 

The Old Familiar Faces. 

1 have had playmates, I have had com¬ 
panions, 

Tn my days of childhood, in my joyful 
school-days; 

All, all are gone, the old familiar faces. 

I have been laughing, I have been carous¬ 
ing, 

Drinking late, sitting late, with my bosom 
cronies; 

All, all are gone, the old familiar frees. 

I loved a love once, fairest among women : 

Closed are her doors on me; I must not 
see her; 

All, all are gone, the old familiar faces. 

I have a friend, a kinder friend has no 
man; 

Like an ingrate, I left my friend ab¬ 
ruptly ; 

Left him, to muse on the old familiar 
faces. 

Ghost-like I paced round the haunts of 
my childhood; 

Earth seem’d a desert I was bound to trav¬ 
erse, 

Seeking to find the old familiar faces. 

Friend of my bosom, thou more than a 
brother, 

Why wert not thou born in my father’s 
dwelling? 

So might we talk of the old familiar 
faces— 

How some they have died, and some they 
have left me, 

And some are taken from me; all are de¬ 
parted,— 

All, all are gone, the old familiar faces. 

Charles Lamb. 


Oft, in the Stilly Night. 

Oft, in the stilly night, 

Ere Slumber’s chain has bound me, 
Fond Memory brings the light 
Of other days around me; 

The smiles, the tears, 

Of boyhood’s years, 

The words of love then spoken ; 

The eyes that shone, 

Now dimm’d and gone, 

The cheerful hearts now broken ! 
Thus, in the stilly night, 

Ere Slumber’s chain has bound me. 
Sad Memory brings the light 
Of other days around me. 

When I remember all 
The friends, so link’d together, 

I’ve seen around me fall, 

Like leaves in wintry weather; 

I feel like one, 

Who treads alone 
Some banquet-lnill deserted, 

Whose lights are fled, 

Whose garlands dead, 

And all but he departed ! 

Thus, in the stilly night, 

Ere Slumber’s chain has bound me, 
Sad Memory brings the light 
Of other days around me. 

Thomas Moore. 

Saturday Afternoon. 

I love to look on a scene like this, 

Of wild and careless play, 

And persuade myself that I am not old, 
And my locks are not yet gray ; 

For it stirs the blood in an old man's 
heart, 

And makes his pulses fly, 

To catch the thrill of a.happy voice, 

And the light of a pleasant eye. 

1 I have walk’d the world for fourscore 
years; 

And they say that I am old, 
j That my heart is ripe for the reaper, 
Death, 

| And my years are wellnigh told. 












78 


FIRESIDE ENCYCLOPAEDIA OF POETRY. 


It is very true ; it is very true ; 

I’m old, and I “bide my time ;” 

But my heart will leap at a scene like 
this, 

And 1 half renew my prime. 

Play on, play on ; I am with you there, 

Tn the midst of your merry ring; 

I can feel the thrill of the daring jump, 
And the rush of the breathless swing. 

I hide with you in the fragrant hay, 

And I whoop the smother’d call, 

And my feet slip up on the seedy floor, 
And I care not for the fall. 

I am willing to die when my time shall 
come, 

And I shall be glad to go; 

For the world at best is a weary place, 

And my pulse is getting low; 

But the grave is dark, and the heart will fail 
In treading its gloomy way ; 

And it wiles my heart from its dreariness. 
To see the young so gay. 

Nathaniel Pakkek Willis, 

- — 40*- 

Twenty Years Ago. 

I’ve wander’d to the village, Tom, I’ve sat 
beneath the tree, 

Upon the school-house play-ground, which 
shelter’d you and me; 

But none were there to greet me, Tom, and 
few were left to know, 

That jday’d with us upon the grass some 
twenty years ago. 

The grass is just as green, Tom—barefooted 
boys at play, 

Were sporting just as we did then, with 
spirits just as gay; 

But the “master” sleeps upon the hill, 
which, coated o’er with snow, 

Afforded us a sliding-place, just twenty 
years ago. 

The old school-house is alter’d some, the 
benches are replaced 

By new ones, very like the same our pen¬ 
knives had defaced; 

But the same old bricks are in the wall, 
the bell swings to and fro, 

It’s music, just the same, dear Tom, ’twas 
twenty years ago. 


' The boys were playing some old game, 
beneath the same old tree— 

1 do forget the name just now; you’ve 
play’d the same with mt* 

! On that same spot; ’twas (flay’d with knives, 
by throwing so and so, 

The loser had a task to do, there, just 
twenty years ago. 

The river’s running just as still, the willows 
on its side 

! Are larger than they were, Tom, the 
stream appears less wide; 

But the grapevine swing is ruin’d now 
where once we play’d the beau, 
j And swung our sweethearts—“ pretty girls ” 
—-just twenty years ago. 

The spring that bubbled ’neath the hill, 
close by the spreading beech, 

Is very low—’twas once so high that we 
could almost reach; 

And kneeling down to get a drink, dear 
Tom, I even started so! 

To see how much that I am changed since 
twenty years ago. 

Near by the spring, upon an elm, you know 
I cut your name, 

Your sweetheart’s just beneath it, Tom, 
and you did mine the same— 

Some heartless wretch had peel’d the bark, 
’twas dying sure but slow, 

Just as the one whose name was cut, died 
twenty years ago. 

My lids have long been dry, Tom, but tears 
came in my eyes, 

I thought of her I loved so well—those 
early broken ties— 

I visited the old churchyard, and took 
some flowers to strew 
Upon the graves of those we loved, some 
twenty years ago. 

Some are in the churchyard laid, some 
sleep beneath the sea, 

But few are left of our old class, except¬ 
ing you and me, 

And when our time is come, Tom, and we 
are call’d to go, 

I hope they’ll lay us where we play’d, just 
twenty years ago. 

I 


Author Unknown 









POEMS OF MEMORY AND RETROSPECTION. 


School and School-fellows. 

u Floreat Etona." 

Twelve years ago 1 made a mock 
Of filthy trades and traffics: 

l wonder’d what they meant by stock ; 

I wrote delightful sappliics; 

l knew the streets of Rome and Troy, 

1 supp’d with Fates and Furies; 

Twelve years ago I was a boy, 

A happy boy at Drury’s. 

Twelve years ago !—how many a thought 
Of faded pains and pleasures 

Those whisper’d syllables have brought 
From Memory’s hoarded treasures! 

The fields, the farms, the bats, the books, 
The glories and disgraces, 

The voices of dear friends, the looks 
Of old familiar faces ! 

Kind Mater smiles again to me, 

As bright as when we parted; 

I seem again the frank, the free, 
Stout-limb’d and simple-hearted! 

Pursuing every idle dream, 

And shunning every warning: 

With no hard work but Bovney stream, 
No chill except Long Morning: 

Now stopping Harry Vernon’s ball 
That rattled like a rocket; 

Now hearing Wentworth’s “ Fourteen all! 
And striking for the pocket; 

Now feasting on a cheese and flitch,— 
Now drinking from the pewter; 

Now leaping over Chalvey ditch, 

Now laughing at my tutor. 

Where are my friends? I am alone; 

No playinaee shares my beaker: 

Some lie beneath the churchyard stone, 
And some—before the Speaker ; 

And some compose a tragedy, 

And some compose a rondo; 

And some draw sword for Liberty, 

And some draw pleas for John Doe. 

Tom Mill was usvd to blacken eyes 
Without the fear of sessions; 

Charles Medlar loath’d false quantities, 
As much as false professions; 

Now Mill keeps order in the land, 

A magistrate pedantic; 


And Medlar’s feet repose unscann’d 
Beneath the wide Atlantic. 

Wild Nick, whose oaths made such a din. 

Does Dr. Martext’s duty ; 

And Mullion, with that monstrous chin, 

Is mai’ried to a beauty; 

And Darrel studies, week by week, 

His Mant, and not his Manton; 

And Ball, who was but poor at Greek, 

Is very rich at Canton. 

And I am eight-and-twenty now ;— 

The world’s cold chains have bound ims 
And darker shades are on my brow, 

And sadder scenes around me : 

In Parliament I fill my seat, 

With many other noodles; 

And lay my head in Jermyn street. 

And sip my hock at Boodle’s. 

But often, when the cares of life 
Have set my temples aching, 

I When visions haunt me of a wife, 

When duns await my waking, 

When Lady Jane is in a pet, 

Or Hoby in a hurry, 

When Captain Hazard wins a bet. 

Or Beaulieu spoils a curry,— 

| For hours and hours I think and talk 
Of each remember’d hobby; 

| I long to lounge in Poets’ Walk, 

To shiver in the lobby; 

I wish that I could run away 
From House, and Court, and Levee, 
Where bearded men appear to-day 
Just Eton boys, grown heavy,— 

! That I could bask in childhood’s sun, 

And dance o’er childhood’s roses, 

And find huge wealth in one pound one 
Vast wit in broken noses, 

And play Sir Giles at Datchet Lane, 

And call the milkmaids Houris,— 

That I could be a boy again,— 

A happy boy,—at Drury’s. 

Winthrop Mack worth Prakd 

A Reflective Retrospect. 

’Tis twenty years, and something more, 
Since, all athirst for useful knowledge 







80 


FIRESIDE ENCYCLOPAEDIA OF POETRY. 


[ took some draughts of classic lore, 

Drawn very mild, at-rd College; 

Yet I remember all that one 
Could wish to hold in recollection ; 

The boys, the joys, the noise, the fun; 

But not a single Conic Section. 

I recollect those harsh affairs, 

The morning bells, that gave us panics ; 

I recollect the formal prayers, 

That seemed like lessons in Mechanics; 

T recollect the drowsy way 

In which the students listen’d to them, 
As clearly, in my wig, to-day, 

As when a boy I slumber’d through 
them. 

T recollect the tutors all 
As freshly now, if T may say so, 

As any chapter I recall, 

In Homer or Ovidius Naso, 
f recollect extremely well 
“ Old Hugh,” the mildest of fanatics ; 

I well remember Matthew Bell, 

But very faintly Mathematics. 

I recollect the prizes paid 

For lessons fathom’d to the bottom ; 

(Alas that pencil-marks should fade!) 

I recollect the chaps who got ’em,— 

The light equestrians who soar’d 
O’er every passage reckon’d stony ; 

And took the chalks,—but never scored 
A single honor to the pony ! 

Ah me ! what changes Time has wrought, , 
And how predictions have miscarried ! 

A few have reach’d the goal they sought, 
And some are dead, and some are mar- , 
ried! 

And some in city journals war ; 

And some as politicians bicker ; 

And some are pleading at the bar— 

For jury-verdicts, or for liquor ! 

And some on Trade and Commerce wait; 

And some in school with dunces battle; 
And some the gospel propagate ; 

And some the choicest breeds of cattle ; 
And some are living at their ease ; 

And some were wreck’d in “the revul¬ 
sion 

Some serve the State for handsome fees, 
And one, I hear, upon compulsion! 


Lamont, who, in his college days, 
Thought e’en a cross a moral scandal, 
Has left his Puritanic ways, 

And worships now with bell and candle : 
And Manx, who mourn’d the negro’* 
fate, 

And held the slave as most unlucky, 
Now holds him, at the market rate, 

On a plantation in Kentucky! 

Tom Knox —who swore in such a tone 
It fairly might be doubted whether 
It was really himself alone, 

Or Knox and Erebus together— 

Has grown a very alter’d man, 

And, changing oaths for mild entreaty, 
Now recommends the Christian plan 
To savages in Otalieite! 

Alas for young ambition’s vow ! 

How envious Fate may overthrow it!— 
Poor Harvey is in Congress now, 

Who struggled long to be a poet; 

Smith carves (quite well) memorial 
stones, 

Who tried in vain to make the law go; 
Hall deals in hides; and “Pious Jones” 
Is dealing faro in Chicago! 

And, sadder still, the brilliant Hays, 

Once honest, manly, and ambitious, 

Has taken latterly to ways 

Extremely profligate and vicious; 

By slow degrees—I can’t tell how— 

He’s reach’d at last the very groundsel, 
And in New York he figures now, 

A member of the Common Council! 

John G. Saxe. 

Tiie boys. 

Has there any old fellow got mix’d with 
the boys ? 

If there lias, take him out, without mak 
ing a noise. 

Hang the Almanac’s cheat and the Cata¬ 
logue’s spite! 

Old Time is a liar! We’re twenty to-night! 

We’re twenty! We’re twenty ! Who says 
we are more? 

He’s tipsy,—young jackanapes!—show him 
the door! 







POEMS OF MEMORY AN1) RETROSPECTION. 


81 


Gray temples at twenty?”—Yes! white, 
if we please; 

Where the snow-flakes fall thickest there’s 
nothing can freeze! 

Was it snowing I spoke of? Excuse the 
mistake! 

Look close,—you will see not a sign of a 
flake! 

We want some new garlands for those we 
have shed,— 

And these are white roses in place of the 
red. 

We’ve a trick, we young fellows, you may 
have been told, 

Of talking (in public) as if we were old: 

That boy we call “ Doctor,” and this we 
call “Judge”;— 

It’s a neat little fiction,—of course it’s all 
fudge. 

That fellow’s the “ Speaker,”—the one on 
the right; 

“ Mr. Mayor,” my young one, how are you 
to-night? 

That’s our “ Member of Congress,” we say 
when we chaff; 

There’s the “ Reverend ” What’s his name ? 
—don’t make me laugh ! 

That boy with the grave mathematical 
look 

Made believe he had written a wonderful 
book, 

And the Royal Society thought it was 
true ! 

So they chose him right in,—a good joke 
it was too! 

There’s a boy, we pretend, with a three- 
decker brain, 

That could harness a team with a logical 
chain; 

When he spoke for our manhood in syl¬ 
labled fire, 

We call’d him “The Justice,” but now 
lie’s “ The Squire.” 

And there’s a nice youngster of excellent 
pith,— 

Fate tried to conceal him by naming him 
Smith; 

6 


But he shouted a song for the brave and 
the free,— 

Just read on his medal, “My country,” 
“of thee!” 

You hear that boy laughing?—You think 
he’s all fun; 

But the angels laugh, too, at the good he 
has done; 

The children laugh loud as they troop to 
his call, 

And the poor man that knows him laughs 
loudest of all f 

Yes, we’re boys,—always playing with 
tongue or with pen; 

And I sometimes have ask’d, Shall we ever 
be men ? 

Shall we always be youthful, and laughing, 
and gay, 

Till the last dear companion drops smil¬ 
ing away? 

Then here’s to our boyhood, its gold and 
its gray! 

The stars of its winter, the dews of its 
May! 

And when we have done with our life-last¬ 
ing toys, 

Dear Father, take care of thy children, 
The Boys. 

Oliver Wendell Holmes 


A uld Lang Syne. 

Should auld acquaintance be forgot, 
And never brought to mind? 
Should auld acquaintance be forgot, 
And auld lang syne? 

For auld lang syne, my dear, 

For auld lang syne, 

We’ll tak’ a cup o’ kindness yet, 
For auld lang syne. 

And surely ye’ll be your pint stowp ! 

And surely I’ll be mine ! 

And we’ll tak’ a cup o’ kindness yet, 
For auld lang syne. 

For auld lang syne, my dear, 

For auld lang syne, 

We’ll tak’ a cup o’ kindness yet, 
For auld lang syne. 







FIRESIDE ENCYCLOPAEDIA OF POETRY. 


82 


YVe twa ha’e run about the braes, 

And pou’d the gowans fine; 

But we’ve wander’d monv a weary fitt 
Bin’ auld lang syne. 

For auld lang syne, my dear, 

For auld lang syne, 

We’ll tak’ a cup o’ kindness yet, 

For auld lang syne. 

We twa ha’e paidl’d in the burn, 

Frae morning sun till dine; 

But seas between us braid ha’e roar’d 
Bin’ auld lang syne. 

For auld lang syne, my dear, 

For auld lang syne, 

We’ll tak’ a cup o’ kindness yet, 

For auld lang syne. 

And there’s a hand, my trusty fiere ! 

And gie’s a hand o’ thine! 

And we’ll tak’ a right gude-willie waught, 
For auld lang syne. 

For auld lang syne, my dear, 

For auld lang syne, 

We’ll tak’ a cup o’ kindness yet, 

For auld lang syne. 

Robert Burns. 


My Playmate. 

The pines were dark on Ramoth hill, 
Their song was soft and low ; 

The blossoms in the sweet May wind 
Were falling like the snow. 

The blossoms drifted at our feet, 

The orchard birds sang clear ; 

The sweetest and the saddest day 
It seem’d of all the year. 

For, more to me than birds or flowers, 
My playmate left her home, 

And took with her the laughing spring, 
The music and the bloom. 

Bhe kiss’d the lips of kith and kin, 

Bhe laid her hand in mine : 

What more could ask the bashful boy 
Who fed her father’s kine? 

She left us in the bloom of May: 

The constant years told o’er 

Their seasons with as sweet May morns, 
But she came back no more. 


I walk, with noiseless feet, the round 
Of uneventful years; 

Still o’er and o’er 1 sow the spring 
And reap the autumn ears. 

- 

She lives where all the golden year 
Her summer roses blow ; 

The dusky children of the sun 
Before her come and go. 

There haply with her jewell’d hands 
She smooths her silken gown,— 

No more the homespun lap wherein 
I shook the walnuts down. 

The wild grapes wait us bv the brook, 

The brown nuts on the hill, 

And still the May-day flowers make sweei 
The woods of Follvmill. 

The lilies blossom in the pond, 

The bird builds in the tree, 

The dark pines sing on Ramoth hill 
The slow song of the sea. 

I wonder if she thinks of them, 
l And how the old time seems,— 

If ever the pines of Ramoth wood 
Are sounding in her dreams. 

I see her face, I hear her voice: 

Does she remember mine ? 

And what to her is now the boy 
Who fed her father’s kine? 

What cares she that the orioles build 
For other eyes than ours,— 

That other hands with nuts are fill’d, 

And other laps with flowers ? 

O playmate in the golden time! 

Our mossy seat is green, 

Its fringing violets blossom yet 
The old trees o’er it lean. 

The winds so sweet with birch and fern 
A sweeter memory blow; 

And there in spring the veeries sing 
The song of long ago. 

And still the pines of Ramoth wood 
Are moaning like the sea,— 

The moaning of the sea of change 
Between myself and thee! 

John Green leaf Whittier. 









POEMS OF MEMORY AND RETROSPECTION. 


88 


I Hae Naebody Now. 

I hae naebody now, 1 hae naebody now, 
To meet me upon the green, 

Wi’ light locks waving o’er her brow, 

An’ joy in her deep blue e’en ; 

A i the raptured kiss, an’ the happy smile, 
An’ the dance o’ the lightsome fay, 

An’ the wee bit tale o’ news the while 
That had happen’d when I was away. 

a. hae naebody now, I hae naebody now, 

To clasp to my bosom at even. 

O’er her calm sleep to breathe the vow, 
An’ pray for a blessing from Heaven; 
An’ the wild embrace, an’ the gleesome face, 
In the morning that met my eye, 

Where are they now? where are they now? 
In the cauld, cauld grave they lie. 

There’s naebody kens, there’s naebody kens, 
An’ oh, may they never prove, 

That sharpest degree o’ agony 

For the child o’ their earthly love. 

To see a flower, in its vernal hour, 

By slow degrees decay, 

Then calmly aneath the hand o’ death, 
Breathe its sweet soul away 1 

Oh, dinna break, my poor auld heart, 

Nor at thy loss repine, 

For the unseen hand that threw the dart 
Was sent frae her Father and thine. 

Yet I maun mourn, an’ 1 will mourn, 

Even till my latest day, 

For though my darling can never return, 

I shall follow thee soon away. 

James Hogg. 

The Soldier’s Dream. 

Our bugles sang truce, for the night-cloud 
had lower’d, 

And the sentinel stars set their watch in 
the sky, 

nd thousands had sunk on the ground 
overpower’d, 

The weary to sleep, and the wounded to 
die. 

When reposing that night on my pallet of 
straw, 

By the wolf-scaring fagot that guarded 
the slain, 

Atthedeadof the night a sweet vision I saw, 
And thrice ere the morning I dream’d it 
again. 


Methought from the battle-field’s dreadful 
array, 

Far, far I had roam’d on a desolate track: 

’Twas Autumn, and sunshine arose on the 
way 

To the home of my fathers, that wel¬ 
comed me back. 

I flew to the pleasant fields traversed so oft 

In life’s morning march, when my bosom 
was young; 

I heard my own mountain-goats bleating 
aloft, 

And knew the sweet strain that the corn- 
reapers sung. 

Then pledged we the wine-cup, and fondly 
I swore 

From my home and my weeping friends 
never to part; 

My little ones kiss’d me a thousand times 
o’er, 

And my wife sobb’d aloud in her fulness 
of heart. 

“ Stay, stay with us ; rest,—thou art weary 
and worn!” 

And fain was their war-broken soldier 
to stay, 

But sorrow return’d with the dawning of 
morn, 

And the voice in my dreaming ear melted 
away. 

Thomas Campbell. 

Bingen on the Rhine. 

A soldier of the Legion lay dying in 
Algiers, 

There was lack of woman’s nursing, there 
was dearth of woman’s tears, 

But a comrade stood beside him, while his 
life-blood ebb’d away, 

And bent, with pitying glances, to hear 
what he might say. 

The dying soldier falter’d as he took that 
comrade’s hand, 

And he said, “ I never more shall see m\ 
own, my native land; 

Take a message and a token to some dis¬ 
tant friends of mine, 

For I was born at Bingen—at Bingen on 
the Rhine. 








84 


FIRESIDE ENCYCLOPAEDIA OF POETRY. 


“Tell my brothers and companions, when 
they meet and crowd around 
To hear my mournful story in the pleasant 
vineyard ground, 

That we fought the battle bravely, and 
when the day was done 
Full many a corpse lay ghastly pale be¬ 
neath the setting sun. 

And ’midst the dead and dying were some 
grown old in wars, 

The death-wound on their gallant breasts, 
the last of many scars; 

But some were young, and suddenly beheld 
life’s morn decline, 

And one had come from Bingen, fair Bin¬ 
gen on the Rhine. 

“Tell my mother that her other sons shall 
comfort her old age, 

And I was aye a truant bird, that thought 
his home a cage, 

For my father was a soldier, and even as a 
child 

My heart leap’d forth to hear him tell of 
struggles fierce and wild ; 

And when he died, and left us to divide 
his scanty hoard, 

I let them take whate’er they would, but 
kept my father’s sword, 

And with boyish love I hung it where the 
bright light used to shine 
On the cottage-wall at Bingen—calm Bin¬ 
gen on the Rhine. 

“ Tell my sister not to weep for me, and 
sob with drooping head, 

When the troops are marching home again 
with glad and gallant tread, 

But to look upon them proudly, with a 
calm and steadfast eye, 

For her brother was a soldier too, and not 
afraid to die. 

And if a comrade seek her love, I ask her 
in my name 

To listen to him kindly, without regret or 
shame, 

And to hang the old sword in its place 
(my father’s sword and mine), 

For the honor of old Bingen—dear Bin¬ 
gen on the Rhine. 


“There’s another—not a sister: in the 
happy days gone by, 

You’d have known her by the merriment 
that sparkled in her eye; 

Too innocent for coquetry, too fond for 
idle scorning, 

0 friend, I fear the lightest heart makes 
sometimes heaviest mourning; 

Tell her the last night of my life (for ere 
the moon be risen 

My body will be out of pain—my soul be 
out of prison), 

I dream’d I stood with her, and saw the 
yellow sunlight shine 
On the vineclad hills of Bingen—fair 
Bingen on the Rhine. 

“ I saw the blue Rhine sweep along—1 
heard, or seemed to hear, 

The German songs we used to sing, in 
' chorus sweet and clear, 

And down the pleasant river, and up the 
slanting hill, 

The echoing chorus sounded through the 
evening calm and still; 

And her glad blue eyes were on me as we 
pass’d with friendly talk 
Down many a path beloved of yore, and 
well-remember’d walk, 

And her little hand lay lightly, confid¬ 
ingly in mine; 

But we’ll meet no more at Bingen—loved 
Bingen on the Rhine.” 

His voice grew faint and hoarser—his 
grasp was childish weak— 

His eyes put on a dying look—he sigh'd 
and ceased to speak ; 

His comrade bent to lift him, but the spark 
of life had fled— 

The soldier of the Legion in a foreign 
land was dead! 

And the soft moon rose up slowly, and 
calmly she look’d down 
On the red sand of the battle-field, with 
bloody corpses strown; 

Yea, calmly on that dreadful scene her 
pale light seem’d to shine, 

As it shone on distant Bingen—fair Bin¬ 
gen on the Rhine. 

Caroline Norton. 






POEMS OF MEMORY AND RETROSPECTION. 


sz 


The Chess-Board. 

M\’ little love, do you remember, 

Ere we were grown so sadly wise, 

Those evenings in the bleak December, 
Curtain’d warm from the snowy weather, 
When you and I play’d chess together, 
Checkmated by each other’s eyes ? 

Ah, still I see vour soft white hand 
Hovering warm o’er Queen and Knight. 

Brave Pawns in valiant battle stand : 
The double Castles guard the wings : 

The Bishop, bent on distant things, 

Moves sidling through the fight. 

Our fingers touch ; our glances meet, 
And falter ; falls your golden hair 
Against my cheek ; your bosom sweet 
Is heaving. Down the field, your Queen 
Hides slow her soldiery all between, 

And checks me unaware. 

Ah me ! the little battle’s done, 

I )ispersed is all its chivalry ; 

Full many a move since then have we 
Mid Life’s perplexing checkers made, 

And many a game with Fortune play’d,— 
What is it we have won ? 

This, this at least—if this alone ;— 

That never, never, never more, 

As in those old still nights of yore 
(Ere we were grown so sadly wise), 

Can you and I shut out the skies, 

Shut out the world, and wintry weather, 
And, eyes exchanging warmth with eyes, 
Play chess, as then we play’d, together ! 

Robert Bulwer Lytton. 

The Days that are no More. 

Tears, idle tears, I know not .vha u 
they mean, 

Tears from the depth of some divine de¬ 
spair 

Rise in the heart, and gatner to the eyes, 
In looking on the happy autumn fields, 
And thinking of the days that are no 
more. 

Fresh as the first beam glittering on a 
sail, 

That brings our friends up from the un¬ 
der-world, 

Sad as the last which reddens over one 
That sinks with all we love below the verge; 
So sad, so fresh, the days that are no more. 


Ah, sad and strange as in dark summei 
dawns 

The earliest pipe of half-awaken’d birds 
To dying ears, when unto dying eyes 
The casement slowly grows a glimmering 
square; 

So sad, so strange, the days that are nc 
more. 

Dear as remember’d kisses after death, 
And sweet as those by hopeless fane) 
feign’d 

On lips that are for others: deep as love, 
Deep as first love, and wild with all rt- 
gret; 

Oh, death in life! the days that are m- 
more. 

Alfred TEHi<v$*n*. 


FAREWELL! BUT WHENEVER YOU 
Welcome the Hour. 

Farewell! but whenever you welcome 
the hour 

That awakens tne night-song of mirth in 
your bower, 

Then think of the friend who once wel¬ 
comed it too. 

And forgot his own griefs to be happy with 
you. 

His griefs may return—not a hope may re¬ 
main 

Of the few that have brighten’d his path¬ 
way of pain— 

But he ne’er will forget the short vision that 
threw 

Its enchantment around him while linger¬ 
ing with you! 

And still on that evening, when pleasure 
fills up 

To the highest top-sparkle each heart and 
each cup, 

Where’er my path lies, be it gloomy or 
bright, 

My soul, happy friends! shall be with you 
that night— 

blall join in your revels, your sports, and 
your wiles, 

And return to me beaming all o’er with 
your smiles; 









86 


FIRESIDE ENCYCLOPAEDIA OF POETRY. 


Too blest if it tells me that, mid the gay 
cheer, 

Some kind voice had murmur’d, “ I wish 
he were here!” 

Let Fate do her worst, there are relics of 
joy, 

Bright dreams of the past, which she can¬ 
not destroy! 

Which come in the night-time of sorrow 
and care, 

And bring back the features that joy used 
to wear. 

Long, long be my heart with such memo¬ 
ries fill’d! 

Like the vase in which roses have once 
been distill’d; 

You may break, you may ruin the vase if 
you will, 

But the scent of the roses will hang round 
it still. 

Thomas Moore. 

When we Two Parted. 

When we two parted 
In silence and tears, 

Half broken-hearted, 

To sever for years, 

Pale grew thy cheek and cold, 
Colder thy kiss; 

Truly that hour foretold 
Sorrow to this. 

The dew of the morning 
Sunk chill on my brow— 

It felt like the warning 
Of what I feel now. 

Thy vows are all broken, 

And light is thy fame; 

I hear thy name spoken, 

And share in its shame. 

They name thee before me, 

A knell to mine ear ; 

A shudder comes o’er me— 

Why wert thou so dear ? 

They know not I knew thee, 

Who knew thee too well:— 

Long, long shall I rue thee, 

Too deeply to tell. 

In secret we met— 

In silence I grieve, 

That thy heart could forget, 

Thy spirit deceive. 


If I should meet thee 
After long years, 

How should I greet thee ?— 

With silence and tears. 

Lord Byron 


Lament of the Irish 
Emigrant. 

I’m sittin’ on the stile, Mary, 

Where we sat side by side 
| On a bright May morn in’ long ago, 

When first you were my bride; 

The corn was springin’ fresh and green, 
And the lark sang loud and high ; 

And the red was on your lip, Mary, 

And the love-light in your eye. 

The place is little changed, Mary; 

The day is bright as then; 

The lark’s loud song is in my ear, 

And the corn is green again ; 

But I miss the soft clasp of your hand, 
And your breath, warm on my cheek ; 

And I still keep list’nin’ for the words 
You never more will speak. 

’Tis but a step down yonder lane, 

And the little church stands near— 

The church where we were wed, Mary; 

I see the spire from here. 

But the graveyard lies between, Mary, 
And my step might break your rest— 

For I’ve laid you, darling, down to sleep, 
With your baby on your breast. 

I’m very lonely now, Mary, 

For the poor make no new friends; 

But, oh ! they love the better still 
The few our Father sends! 

And you were all I had, Mary— 

My blessin’ and my pride: 

There’s nothing left to care for now, 

Since my poor Mary died. 

Yours was the good, brave heart, Mary, 
That still kept hoping on, 

When the trust in God had left my soul, 
And my arm’s young strength wa 
gone; 

There was comfort ever on your lip, 

And the kind look on your brow— 

I bless you, Mary, for that same, 

Though you cannot hear me now. 








I thank you lor the patient smile 
When your heart was fit to break— 
When the hunger-pain was gnawin’ there, 
And you hid it for my sake; 

I bless you for the pleasant word, 

When your heart was sad and sore— 

Oh ! I’m thankful you are gone, Mary, 
Where grief can’t reach you more! 

I’m biddin’ you a long farewell, 

My Mary—kind and true ! 

But I’ll not forget you, darling, 

In the land I’m goin’ to; 

They say there’s bread and work for all, 
And the sun shines always there— 

But I’ll not forget old Ireland, 

Were it fifty times as fair! 

And often in those grand old woods 
I’ll sit, and shut my eyes, 

And my heart will travel back again 
To the place where Mary lies ! 

And I’ll think I see the little stile 
Where we sat side by side, 

And the springin’ corn, and the bright 
May morn, 

When first you were my bride. 

Lady Duffekin. 


The Age of Wisdom. 

Ho, pretty page with the dimpled chin 
That never has known the barber’s 
shear, 

All your wish is woman to win, 

This is the way that boys begin,— 

Wait till you come to Forty Year. 

Curly gold locks cover foolish brains, 
Billing and cooing is all your cheer; 
Sighing and singing of midnight strains, 
Under Bonnybell’s window-panes,— 

Wait till you come to Forty Year ! 

Forty times over let Michaelmas pass, 
Grizzling hair the brain doth clear— 
Then you know a boy is an ass, 

Then you know the worth of a lass, 

Once you have come to Forty Year. 

Fledge me round, I bid ye declare, 

All good fellows whose beards are grey, 
Did not the fairest of the fair 
Common grow and wearisome ere 
Ever a month was pass’d away ? 


The reddest lips that ever have kiss’d, 

The brightest eyes that ever have shone. 
May pray and whisper, and we not list, 

Or look away, and never be miss’d, 

Ere yet ever a month is gone. 

Gillian’s dead, God rest her bier ! 

How I loved her twenty years syne! 
Marian’s married, but I sit here 
Alone and merry at Forty Year, 

Dipping my nose in the Gascon wine. 

William Makepeace Thackeray. 

-- 

Ode to an Indian Gold Coin. 

Written in Chekical, Malabar. 

Slave of the dark and dirty mine! 

What vanity has brought thee here ? 
How can I love to see thee shine 
So bright, whom 1 1 have bought so 
dear ?— 

The tent-ropes flapping lone I hear, 

For twilight converse, arm in arm ; 

The jackal’s shriek bursts on mine ear 
When mirth and music wont to charm. 

I 

By Cherical’s dark wandering streams, 
Where cane-tufts shadow all the wild, 
Sweet visions haunt my waking dreams 
Of Teviot, loved while still a child, 

Of castled rocks stupendous piled 
By Esk or Eden’s classic wave, 

Where loves of youth and friendships 
smiled, 

Uncursed by thee, vile yellow slave ! 

Fade, day-dreams sweet, from memory 
fade!— 

The perish’d bliss of youth’s first 
prime, 

i That once so bright on fancy play’d, 
Revives no more in after time. 

Far from my sacred natal clime, 

I haste to an untimely grave; 

The daring thoughts that soar’d sublime 
Are sunk in ocean’s southern wave. 

Slave of the mine! thy yellow light 
Gleams baleful as the tomb-fire drear 
A gentle vision comes by night 
My lonely widow’d heart to cheer; 

Her eyes are dim with many a tear, 

[ That once were guiding stars to mine: 










88 


FIRESIDE ENCYCLOPEDIA OF POETRY. 


Her fond heart throbs with many a fear! 
1 cannot bear to see thee shine. 

For thee, for thee, vile yellow slave, 

I left a heart that loved me true ! 

I cross’d the tedious ocean-wave, 

To roam in climes unkind and new. 

The cold wind of the stranger blew 
Chill on my wither’d heart: the grave 
Dark and untimely met my view,— 

And all for thee, vile yellow slave! 

Ha! com’st thou now so late to mock 
A wanderer’s banish’d heart forlorn, 
Now that his frame the lightning shock 
Of sun-rays tipt with death has borne? 
From love, from friendship, country, torn, 
To memory’s fond regrets the prey; 

Vile slave, thy yellow dross I scorn! 

Go mix thee with thy kindred clay ! 

John Leyden. 

Freak, Break, break. 
Burak, break, break, 

On thy cold, gray stones, 0 sea! 

And I would that my tongue could utter 
The thoughts that arise in me. 

Oh, well for the fisherman’s boy 
That he shouts with his sister at play! 
Oh, well for the sailor lad 
That he sings in his boat on the bay! 

And the stately ships go on 
To the haven under the hill; 

But oh, for the touch of a vanish’d hand, 
And the sound of a voice that is still! 
Break, break, break, 

At the foot of thy crags. 0 sea! 

But the tender grace of a day that is dead 
Will never come back to me. 

Alfred Tennyson. 

On This Day / Complete my 
Thir t j '-six th Yea r. 

MisSOLONGIJI, Jan. 22, 1824. 

'Trs time this heart should be unmoved, 
►Since others it has ceased to move: 

Yet, though I cannot be beloved, 

Still let me love ! 

My days are in the yellow leaf; 

The flowers and fruits of love are gone; 
The worm, the canker, and the grief 
Are mine alone! 


The fire that on my bosom preys 
Is lone as some volcanic isle; 

No torch is kindled at its blaze— 

A funeral pile! 

The hope, the fear, the jealous care, 

The exalted portion of the pain 

And power of love, I cannot share. 

But wear the chain. 

But ’tis not thus —and ’tis not here — 

Such thoughts would shake my soul, no: 

7101V, 

Where glory decks the hero’s bier, 

Or binds his brow. 

The sword, the banner, and the field, 
Glory and Greece, around me see! 

The Spartan, borne upon his shield, 

Was not more free. 

Awake! (not Greece—she is awake) 
Awake, my spirit! Think through whom 

Thy life-blood tracks its parent lake, 

And then strike home! 

Tread those reviving passions down, 
Unworthy manhood !—unto thee 

Indifferent should the smile or frown 
Of beauty be. 

If thou regret’st thy youth, tvhij live f 
The land of honorable death 

Is here:—up to the field, and give 
Away thy breath! 

Seek out—less often sought than found— 

A soldier’s grave, for thee the best; 

Then look around, and choose thy ground 
And take thy rest. 

Lord Byron. 

Old Letters. 

Old letters ! wipe away the tear 
For vows and hopes so vainly worded? 

A pilgrim finds his journal here 
Since first his youthful loins were girded 

Yes, here are wails from Clapliam Grove, 
How could philosophy expect us 

To live with Dr. Wise, and love 
Rice-pudding and the Greek Delectus? 

Explain why childhood’s path is sown 
With moral and scholastic tin-tacks ; 








POEMS OF MEMORY AND RETROSPECTION. 


Ere sin original was known, 

Did Adam groan beneath the syntax ? 

How strange to parley with the dead ! 
Keep ye your green , wan leaves ? How 
many 

From Friendship’s tree untimely shed ! 
And here is one as sad as any ; 

A ghastly bill! “ I disapprove,” 

And yet She helped me to defray it— 
What tokens of a mother’s love ! 

Oh, bitter thought! I can’t repay it. 

And here’s the offer that I wrote 
- In ’33 to Lucy Diver ; 

And here John Wylie’s begging note,— 
He never paid me back a stiver. 

And here my feud with Major Spike, 

Our bet about the French Invasion ; 

I must confess I acted like 
A donkey upon that occasion. 

Here’s news from Paternoster Row ! 

How mad I was when first I learn’d it: 
They would not take my book, and now 
I’d give a trifle to have burnt it. 

And here a pile of notes, at last, 

With “love,” and “dove,” and “sever,” 
“ never:” 

Though hope, though passion may be past, 
Their perfume is as sweet as ever. 

A human heart should beat for two, 
Despite the scoffs of single scorners; 
And all the hearths I ever knew 
Had got a pair of chimney corners. 

See here a double violet— 

Two locks of hair—a deal of scandal; 

[ 'll burn what only brings regret—- 
Go, Betty, fetch a lighted candle. 

Frederick Locker. 

The Ballad of Bouillabaisse. 

A street there is in Paris famous, 

For which no rhyme our language yields, 
Rue Neuve des Petits Champs its name is— 
The New Street of the Little Fields. 
And here’s an inn, not rich and splendid, 
But still in comfortable case; 

Lhe which in youth I oft attended, 

To eat a bowl of Bouillabaisse. 


8t> 


This Bouillabaisse a noble dish is— 

A sort of soup or broth, or brew, 

Or hotchpotch of all sorts of fishes, 

That Greenwich never could outdo ; 
Green herbs, red peppers, mussels, saffron. 
Soles, onions, garlic, roach, and dace: 
All these you eat at Terre’s tavern, 

In that one dish of Bouillabaisse. 

Indeed, a rich and savory stew ’tis; 

And true philosophers, methinks, 

Who love all sorts of natural beauties, 
Should love good victuals and good 
drinks. 

And Cordelier or Benedictine 
Might gladly, sure, his lot embrace, 

Nor find a fast-day too afflicting, 

Which served him up a Bouillabaisse. 

I wonder if the house still there is? 

Yes, here the lamp is, as before; 

The smiling red-cheek’d dcaillere is 
Still opening oysters at the door. 

Is Terre still alive and able? 

I recollect his droll grimace: 

He’d come and smile before your table. 
And hope you liked your Bouillabaisse. 

We enter—nothing’s changed or older. 

“ How’s Monsieur Terre, waiter, pray?” 
The waiter stares and shrugs his shoulder—• 
“ Monsieur is dead this many a day.” 

“ It is the lot of saint and sinner, 

So honest Terre’s run his race.” 

“What will Monsieur require for din¬ 
ner?” 

“Say, do you still cook Bouillabaisse?” 

“Oh, oui, Monsieur,”’s the waiter’s an¬ 
swer; 

“Quel vin Monsieur desire-t-il?” 

“ Tell me a good one.”—“ That I can, sir • 
The Chambertin with yellow seal.” 

“So Terre’s gone,” I say, and sink in 
My old accustom’d corner-place; 

“He’s done with feasting and with drink¬ 
ing, 

With Burgundy and Bouillabaisse.” 

My old accustom’d corner here is, 

The table still is in the nook ; 

Ah ! vanish’d many a busy year is 
This well-known chair since last I 
took. 






no 


FIRESIDE ENCYCLOPAEDIA OF POETRY. 


When first I saw ye, cari luoghi, 

I’d scarce a beard upon my face, 

And now, a grizzled, grim old fogy, 

I sit and wait for Bouillabaisse. 

Where are you, old companions trusty 
Of early days here met to dine? 

Come, waiter! quick, a flagon crusty— 

I'll pledge them in the good old wine. 
The kind old voices and old faces 
My memory can quick retrace; 

Around the board they take their places, 
And share the wine and Bouillabaisse. 

There’s Jack has made a wondrous mar¬ 
riage ; 

There’s laughing Tom is laughing yet; 
There’s brave Augustus drives his car¬ 
riage ; 

There’s poor old Fred in the Gazette; 
On James’s head the grass is growing : 

Good Lord ! the world has wagg’d apace 
Since here we set the Claret flowing, 

And drank, and ate the Bouillabaisse. 

Ah me! how quick the days are flitting! 

I mind me of a time that’s gone, 

"When here I’d sit, as now I’m sitting, 

Tn this same place—but not alone. 

A fair young form was nestled near me, 

A dear, dear face look’d fondly up, 

And sweetly spoke and smiled to cheer 
me. 

—There’s no one now to share my cup. 
****** 

I drink it as the Fates ordain it. 

Come, fill it, and have done with rhymes: 
Fill up the lonely glass and drain it 
In memory of dear old times. 

Welcome the wine, whate’er the seal is; 

And sit you down and say your grace 
With thankful heart, whate’er the meal 
is. 

—Here comes the smoking Bouillabaisse! 
William Makepeace Thackeray. 


West Point. 

Twas Commencement eve, and the ball¬ 
room belle 

In her dazzling beauty was mine that 
night, 


As the music dreamily rose and fell, 

And the waltzers whirled in a blaze of 
light: 

I can see them now in the moonbeam’s 
glance 

Across the street on a billowy floor, 

That rises and falls with the merry dance, 
To a music that flows in my heart once 
more. 

A long half hour in the twilight leaves 
Of the shrubbery: she, with coquettish 
face, 

And dainty arms in their flowing sleeves, 

A dream of satins and love and lace. 

In the splendor there of her queenly smile, 
Through her two bright eyes I could see 
the glow 

Of cathedral windows, as up the aisle 
We marched to a music’s ebb and flow. 

All in a dream of Commencement eve! 

I remember I awkwardly buttoned a 
glove 

On the dainty arm in its flowing sleeve, 
With a broken sentence of hope and 
love. 

But the diamonds that flashed in her wavv 
hair, 

And the beauty that shone in her fault¬ 
less face, 

Are all I recall as I struggled there, 

A poor brown fly in a web of lace. 

Yet a laughing, coquettish face I see, 

As the moonlight falls on the pavement 
gray, 

I can hear her laugh in the melody 
Of the waltz’s music across the way. 

! And I kept the glove so dainty and small. 
That I stole as she sipped her lemonade, 

Till I packed it away I think with all 
Of those traps I lost in our Northern 
raid. 

But I never can list to that waltz divine, 
With its golden measure of joy and 
pain, 

But it brings like the flavor of some old 
wine 

To my heart the warmth of the past 
again. 

A short flirtation—that’s all, you know, 

I Some faded flowers, a silken tress, 





POEMS OF MEMORY AND RETROSPECTION. 


01 


The letters I burned up years ago, 

When I heard from her last in the Wil¬ 
derness. 

I suppose, could she see I am maimed and 
old, 

She would soften the scorn that was 
changed to hate, 

When I chose the bars of the gray and 
gold, 

And followed the South to its bitter fate. 
But here’s to the lads of the Northern blue, 
And here’s to the boys of the Southern 
gray, 

And I would that the Northern star but 
knew 

IIow the Southern cross is borne to-day. 

L. C. Strong. 

The Teacher’s Dream. 

Thf. weary teacher sat alone 
While twilight gathered on ; 

And not a sound was heard around, 

The boys and girls were gone. 

The weary teacher sat alone, 

Unnerved and pale was he; 

Bowed ’neath a yoke of care, he spoke 
In sad soliloquy: 

“Another round, another round 
Of labor thrown away,— 

Another chain of toil and pain 
Dragged through a tedious day. 

“ Of no avail is constant zeal, 

Love’s sacrifice is loss, 

The hopes of morn, so golden, turn, 

Each evening, into dross. 

“ I squander on a barren field, 

My strength, my life, my all; 

The seeds I sow will never grow, 

They perish where they fall.” 

He sighed, and low upon his hands 
His aching brow he prest; 

And o’er his frame, erelong there came 
A soothing sense of rest. 

And then he lifted up his face, 

But started back aghast,— 

The room by strange and sudden change 
Assumed proportions vast. 


It seemed a Senate hall, and one 
Addressed a listening throng; 

Each burning word all bosoms stirred, 
Applause rose loud and long. 

The ’wildered teacher thought he knew 
The speaker’s voice and look, 

“And for his name,” said he, “ the same 
Is in my record-book.” 

The stately Senate hall dissolved, 

A church rose in its place, 

Wherein there stood a man of God, 
Dispensing words of grace. 

And though he spoke in solemn tone, 

And though his hair was gray, 

The teacher’s thought was strangely 
wrought, 

“ I whipped that boy to-day.” 

The church, a phantasm, vanished soon ; 

What saw the teacher then ? 

In classic gloom of alcoved room, 

An author plied his pen. 

■ “ My idlest lad !” the teacher said, 

Filled with a new surprise— 

“Shall I behold his name enrolled 
Among the great and wise?” 

The vision of a cottage home 
The teacher now descried ; 

A mother’s face illumed the place 
Her influence sanctified. 

“A miracle! a miracle! 

This matron, well I know, 

Was but a wild and careless child 
Not half an hour ago. 

“And when she to her children speaks 
Of duty’s golden rule, 

Her lips repeat, in accents sweet, 

My words to her at school.” 

The scene was changed again, and Io, 

The school-house rude and old, 

Upon the wall did darkness fall, 

The evening air was cold. 

“A dream!” the sleeper, waking, said, 
Then paced along the floor, 

And, whistling slow and soft and low, 

He locked the school-house door. 









02 


FIRESIDE ENCYCLOPAEDIA OF POETRY. 


And, walking home, his heart was full 
Of peace and trust and love and praise ; 
And singing slow and soft and low, 

He murmured, “After many days.” 

W. H. Venable. 

The Pastor’s Reverie. 

The pastor sits in his easy-chair, 

With the Bible upon his knee, 

From gold to purple the clouds in the west 
Are changing momently; 

The shadows lie in the valley below, 

And hide in the curtains’ fold ; 

And the page grows dim whereon he reads, I 
“ I remember the days of old.” 

“Not clear nor dark,” as the Scripture 
saith, 

The pastor’s memories are; 

No day that is gone was shadowless, 

No night was without its star; 

But mingled hitter and sweet hath been 
The portion of his cup: 

“ The hand that in love hath smitten,” he 
saith, 

“In love hath bound us up.” 

Fleet flies his thought over many a field | 
Of stubble and snow and bloom, 

And now it trips through a festival, 

And now it halts at a tomb; 

Young faces smile in his reverie 
Of those that are young no more, 

And voices are heard that only come 
With the winds from a far-off shore. 

He thinks of the day when first, with fear 
And faltering lips, he stood 
To speak in the sacred place the Word 
To the waiting multitude; 

He walks again to the house of God 
With the voice of joy and praise, 

With many whose feet long time have 
pressed 

Heaven’s safe and blessed ways. 

He enters again the homes of toil, 

And joins in the homely chat; 

He stands in the shop of the artisan; 

He sits, where the Master sat, 

At the poor man’s fire and the rich man’s 
feast. 

But who to-day are the poor, 


And who are the rich? Ask Him who 
keeps 

The treasures that ever endure. 

Once more the green and grove resound 
With the merry children’s din ; 

He hears their shout at the Christmas tide, 
When Santa Claus stalks in. 

Once more he lists while the camp-fire 
roars 

On the distant mountain-side, 

Or, proving apostleship, plies the brook 
Where the fierce young troutlings hide. 

And now he beholds the wedding-train 
To the altar slowly move, 

And the solemn words are said that seal 
The sacrament of love. 

Anon at the font he meets once more 
The tremulous youthful pair, 

With a white-robed cherub crowing re¬ 
sponse 

To the consecrating prayer. 

By the couch of pain he kneels again ; 

Again, the thin hand lies 
Cold in his palm, while the last far look 
Steals into the steadfast eyes; 

And now the burden of hearts that break 
Lies heavy upon his own— 

The widow’s woe and the orphan’s cry 
And the desolate mother’s moan. 

So blithe and glad, so heavy and sad, 

Are the days that are no more, 

So mournfully sweet are the sounds that 
float 

With the winds from a far-off shore. 

For the pastor has learned what meaneth 
the word 

That is given him to keep,— 

“ Rejoice with them that do rejoice, 

And weep with them that weep.” 

It is not in vain that he has trod 
This lonely and toilsome way. 

It is not in vain that he has wrought 
In the vineyard all the day; 

For the soul that gives is the soul that 
lives, 

And bearing another’s load 
Doth lighten your own, and shorten the 
way 

And brighten the homeward road. 

Washington Gladden. 







POEMS OF MEMORY AND RETROSPECTION. 


93 


The Nabob. 

When silent time, \vi’ lightly foot, 

Had trod on thirty years, 

I sought again my native land 
Wi’ mony hopes and fears. 

Wha kens gin the dear friends I left 
May still continue mine? 

Or gin I e’er again snail taste 
The joys I left langsyne? 

As I drew near my ancient pile 
My heart heat a’ the way ; 

Ilk place I pass’d seem’d yet to speak 
O’ some dear former day; 

Those days that follow’d me afar, 

Those happy days o’ mine, 

Whilk made me think the present joys 
A’ naething to langsyne! 

The ivied tower now met my eye 
Where minstrels used to blaw; 

Nae friend stepp’d forth wi’ open hand, 
Nae weel-kenn’d face I saw ; 

T ill Donald totter’d to the door, 

Wham I left in his prime, 

And grat to see the lad return 
He bore about langsyne. 

I ran to ilka dear friend’s room, 

As if to find them there, 

I knew where ilk ane used to sit, 

And hang o’er mony a chair; 

Till soft remembrance threw a veil 
Across these e’en o’ mine, 

( closed the door, and sobb’d aloud, 

To think on auld langsyne. 

some pensy chiels, a new-sprung race, 
Wad next their welcome pay, 

ATia shudder’d at my Gothic wa’s 
And wish’d my groves away. 

“'Cut, cut,” they cried, “those aged elms; 

Lay low yon mournfu’ pine.” 

;t?Ja! na! our fathers’names grow there, 
Memorials o’ langsyne. 

To wean me frae these waefu’ thoughts, 
They took me to the town; 

Lot sair on ilka weel-kenn’d face 
i miss’d the youthfu’ bloom. 

At balls they pointed to a nymph 
Wham a’ declared divine ; 

B 4 sure her mother’s blushing cheeks 
Were fairer far langsyne! 


In vain I sought in music’s sound 
To find that magic art, 

Which oft in Scotland’s ancient lays 
Has thrill’d through a’ my heart. 

The song had mony an artfu’ turn; 

•j My ear confess’d ’twas fine; 

But miss’d the simple melody 
| I listen’d to langsyne. 

Ye sons to comrades o’ my youth, 

Forgi’e an auld man’s spleen, 

Wha ’midst your gayest scenes still 
mourns 

The days he ance has seen. 

When time has pass’d and seasons fled, 
Your hearts will feel like mine; 
i And aye the sang will maist delight 
That minds ye o’ langsyne! 

Susanna Blamire. 

-KX- 

Once upon a Time. 

I mind me of a pleasant time, 

A season long ago; 

The pleasantest I’ve ever known, 

Or ever now shall know. 

Bees, birds, and little tinkling rills 
So merrily did chime ; 

The year was in its sweet spring-tide, 

And I was in my prime. 

I’ve never heard such music since, 

From every bending spray; 

I’ve never pluck’d such primroses, 

Set thick on bank and brae ; 

I’ve never smelt such violets 
As all that pleasant time 

I found by every hawthorn root— 

When I was in my prime. 

Yon moory down, so black and bare, 

Was gorgeous then and gay 

With golden gorse—bright blossoming- 
As none blooms nowaday. 

The blackbird sings but seldom now 
Up there in the old lime, 

Where hours and’hours he used to sing-- 
When I was in my prime. 

Such cutting winds came never then 
To pierce one through and through; 

More softly fell the silent shower, 

More balmily the dew. 











FIRESIDE ENCYCLOPAEDIA <>E POETRY. 


f)4 


The morning mist and evening haze— 
Unlike this cold gray rime— 

Seem’d woven warm of golden air 
When I was in my prime. 

And blackberries—so mawkish now— 
Were finely flavor’d then ; 

And nuts—such reddening clusters ripe 
I ne’er shall pull again ; 

Nor strawberries blushing bright—as rich 
As fruits of sunniest clime; 

How all is alter’d for the worse 
Since I was in my prime! 

Caroline Bowles Southey. 


Forget me Not. 

Go, youth beloved, in distant glades 
New friends, new hopes, new joys to find, 
Yet sometimes deign, ’midst fairer maids, 
To think on her thou leav’st behind. 
Thy love, thv fate, dear youth, to share, 
Must never be my happy lot, 

But thou mayst grant this humble prayer, 
Forget me not, forget me not! 

Yet should the thought of my distress 
Too painful to thy feelings be, 

Heed not the wish I now express, 

Nor ever deign to think on me; 

But, oh, if'grief thy steps attend, 

If want, if sickness be thy lot, 

And thou require a soothing friend; 
Forget me not, forget me not! 

Amelia Opie. 

- *04 - 

Youth and Age. 

Verse, a breeze ’mid blossoms straying, 
Where Hope clung feeding, like a bee— 
Both were mine ! Life went a-maying 
With Nature, Hope, and Poesy, 

When I was young ! 

When I was young?—Ah, woful When ! 
Ah ! for the change ’twixt Now and Then ! 
This breathing house not built with hands, 
This body that does me grievous wrong, 
O’er aery cliffs and glittering sands 
How lightly then it flash’d along : 

Like those trim skiffs, unknown of yore, 
On winding lakes and rivers wide, 

That ask no aid of sail or oar, 

That fear no spite of wind or tide ! 


Naught cared this body for wind or weather 
When Youth and I lived in’t together. 

Flowers are lovely ; Love is flower-like ; 
Friendship is a sheltering tree ; 

Oh the joys, that came down shower-like. 
Of Friendship, Love, and Liberty, 

Ere I was old ! 

Ere I was old?—Ah, woful Ere, 

Which tells me, Youth’s no longer here ! 

O Youth ! for years so many and sweet 
’Tis known that thou and I were one, 

I’ll think it but a fond conceit— 

It cannot be, that thou art gone ! 

Thy vesper-bell hath not yet toll’d :—• 

And thou wert aye a masker bold ! 

What strange disguise hast now put on 
To make believe that thou art gone ? 

I see these locks in silvery slips, 

This drooping gait, this alter’d size : 

But springtide blossoms on thy lips, 

And tears take sunshine from thine eves ! 
Life is but Thought: so think 1 will 
That Youth and I are housemates still. 

Dew-drops are the gems of morning. 

: But the tears of mournful eve ! 

Where no hope is, life’s a warning 
That only serves to make us grieve, 

When we are old : 

—That only serves to make us grieve 
With oft and tedious taking-leave, 
i Like some poor nigh-related guest 
1 That may not rudely be dismist, 

Yet hath outstay’d his welcome while, 

And tells the jest without the smile. 

Samuel Taylor Coleriulk. 

-KX- 

Stanzas. 

When midnight o’er the moonless skies 
Her pall of transient death has spread 
When mortals sleep, when spectres rise, 
Aud naught is wakeful but the dead ; 

No bloodless shape my way pursues, 

No sheeted ghost my couch annoys ; 
Visions more sad my fancy views, 

Visions of long-departed joys ! . 

The shade of youthful hope is there, 

That linger’d long, and latest died; 












POEMS OF MEMORY AND RETROSPECTION. 


95 


Ambition all dissolved to air, 

With phantom honors by his side. 

What empty shadows glimmer nigh? 

They once were Friendship, Truth, and 
Love! 

Oh, die to thought, to memory die, 

•Since lifeless to my heart ye prove ! 

William Robert Spencer. 


Co where Glory waits Thee. 

Go where glory waits thee ; 

But while fame elates thee, 

Oh still remember me! 

When the praise thou meetest 
To thine ear is sweetest, 

Oh then remember me ! 

Other arms may press thee, 

Dearer friends caress thee, 

All the joys that bless thee 
Sweeter far may be; 

But when friends are nearest, 

And when joys are dearest, 

Oh then remember me! 

When at eve thou rovest 
By the star thou lovest, 

Oh then remember me ! 

Think, when home returning, 
Bright we’ve seen it burning, 

Oh thus remember me ! 

Oft as summer closes, 

When thine eye reposes 
On its lingering roses, 

Once so loved by thee, 

Think of her who wove them, 

Her who made thee love them— 
Oh then remember me ! 

When around thee dying 
Autumn leaves are lying, 

Oh then remember me ! 

And at night when gazing 
On the gay hearth blazing,' 

Oh still remember me ! 

Then should music, stealing 
All the soul of feeling, 

To thy heart appealing, 

Draw one tear from thee ; 

Then let memory bring thee 
Strains I used to sing thee— 

Oh then remember me ! 

Thomas Moor 


The Closing Year. 

’Tis midnight’s holy hour, and silence now 
Is brooding like a gentle spirit o’er 
The still and pulseless world. Hark ! on 
the winds 

The bell’s deep tones are swelling,—’tis 
the knell 

Of the departed year. No funeral train 
Is sweeping past; yet, on the stream and 
wood, 

With melancholy light, the moonbeams 
rest 

Like a pale, spotless shroud ; the air is 
stirr’d 

As by a mourner’s sigh; and on yon cloud 
That floats so still and placidly through 
heaven, 

The spirits of the seasons seem to stand,— 
1 Young Spring, bright Summer, Autumn’s 
solemn form, 

And Winter with its aged locks, — and 
breathe, 

In mournful cadences that come abroad 
Like the far wind-harp’s wild and touching 
wail, 

A melancholy dirge o’er the dead year, 
Gone from the Earth for ever. 

’Tis a time 

For memory and for tears. Within the 
deep, 

Still chambers of the heart, a spectre dim, 
Whose tones are like the wizard voice of 
Time 

Heard from the tomb of ages, points its 
cold 

And solemn finger to the beautiful 
And holy visions that have pass’d away, 
And left no shadow of their loveliness 
On the dead waste of life. That spectre 
lifts 

The coffin-lid of Hope, and Joy, and Love, 
And, bending mournfully above the pale, 
Sweet forms that slumber there, scatters 
dead flowers 

O’er what has pass’d to nothingness. 

The year 

Has gone, and with it many a glorious 
throng 

Of happy dreams. Its mark is on each 
brow. 








FIRESIDE ENCYCLOPEDIA OF POETRY 


96 


Its shadow in each heart. In its swift 
course 

It waved its sceptre o’er the beautiful,— 
And they are not. It laid its pallid hand 
Upon the strong man,—and the haughty 
form 

Is fallen, and the flashing eye is dim. 

It trod the hall of revelry, where throng’d 
The bright and joyous,—and the tearful 
wail 

Of stricken ones is heard where erst the song 
And reckless shout resounded. 

It pass’d o’er 

The battle-plain, where sword, and spear, 
and shield, 

Flash’d in the light of mid-day,—and the 
strength 

Of serried hosts is shiver’d, and the grass, 
Green from the soil of carnage, waves 
above 

The crush’d and mouldering skeleton. It 
came, 

And faded like a wreath of mist at eve ; 
Yet, ere it melted in the viewless air, 

It heralded its millions to their home 
In the dim land of dreams. 

Remorseless Time! 

Fierce spirit of the glass and scythe!— 
what power 

Can stay him in his silent course, or melt 
His iron heart to pity? On, still on, 

He presses, and for ever. The proud bird, 
The condor of the Andes, that can soar 
Through heaven’s unfathomable depths, or 
brave 

The fury of the northern hurricane, 

4nd bathe his plumage in the thunder’s 
home, 


Furls his broad wings at nightfall, and 
sinks down 

To rest upon his mountain-crag,—but Time 
Knows not the weight of sleep or weariness. 
And night’s deep darkness has no chain to 
bind 

His rushing pinions. 

Revolutions sweep 

O’er earth, like troubled visions o’er the 
breast 

Of dreaming sorrow,—cities rise and sink 
Like bubbles on the water,—fiery isles 
Spring blazing from the ocean, and go 
back 

To their mysterious caverns,—mountains 
rear 

To heaven their bald and blacken’d cliffs, 
and bow 

Their tall heads to the plain,—new empires 
rise, 

Gathering the strength of hoary centuries, 
And rush down like the Alpine avalanche, 
Startling the nations,—and the very stars. 
Yon bright and burning blazonry of God, 
Glitter a while in their eternal depths, 
And, like the Pleiad, loveliest of their 
train, 

Shoot from their glorious spheres, and pass 
away 

To darkle in the trackless void, — yet 
Time, 

Time, the tomb-builder, holds his fierce 
career, 

Dark, stern, all-pitiless, and pauses not 
Amid the mighty wrecks that strew his 
path 

To sit and muse, like other conquerors, 
Upon the fearful ruin he has wrought. 

George D. Prentice. 




Poems of Love 


L 0 VE'S PHIL OSOPHY. 

The fountains mingle with the river, 
And the rivers with the ocean, 

The winds of heaven mix for ever 
With a sweet emotion ; 

Nothing in the world is single; 

All things by a law divine 
In one another’s being mingle— 

Why not I with thine? 

See the mountains kiss high heaven, 
And the waves clasp one another ; 
No sister flower would be forgiven 
If it disdain’d its brother: 

And the sunlight clasps the earth, 

And the moonbeams kiss the sea;— 
What are all these kissings worth, 

If thou kiss not me ? 

Percy Bysshe Shelley. 


Love will Find out tiie Way. 

Over the mountains 
And over the waves ; 

Under the fountains 
And under the graves; 

Under floods that are deepest, 

Which Neptune obey; 

Over rocks that are steepest, 

Love will find out the way. 

Where there is no place 
For the glow-worm to lye; 

AVhere there is no space 
For receipt of a fly ; 

Where the midge dares not venture, 
Lest herself fast she lay ; 

If love come he will enter, 

And soon find out his way. 

You may esteem him 
A child for his might; 

7 


Or you may deem him 
A coward from his flight: 

But if she whom love doth honor 
Be conceal'd from the day, 

Set a thousand guards upon her, 
Love will find out the way. 

Some think to lose him 
By having him confined; 

And some do suppose him, 

Poor thing, to be blind ; 

But if ne’er so close ye wall him, 

Do the best that you may, 

Blind love, if so ye call him, 

Will find out his way. 

You may train the eagle 
To stoop to your fist; 

Or you may inveigle 
The phoenix of the East; 

The lioness, ye may move her 
To give o’er her prey ; 

But you’ll ne’er stop a lover, 
lie will find out his way. 

Author Unknown. 

-»o«- 

A Bridal Song. 

Roses, their sharp spines being gone, 
Not royal in their smells alone, 

But in their hue; 

Maiden-pinks of odor faint, 

Daisies smell-less, yet most quaint, 
And sweet thyme true; 

Primrose, first-born child of Ver, 
Merry spring-time’s harbinger. 

With her bells dim ; 

Oxlips in their cradles growing, 
Marigolds on death-beds blowing, 
Lark-heels trim. 











98 


FIRESIDE EXCYCLOPJE1UA OF ROETR 1 


All, dear Nature’s children sweet, 

Lie fore bride and bridegroom’s feet, 
Blessing their sense! 

Not an angel of the air 
Bird melodious, or bird fair, 

Be absent hence! 

The crow, the slanderous cuckoo, nor 
The boding raven, nor chough hoar, 
Nor chattering pie, 

May on our bride-house perch or sing, 
Or with them any discord bring, 

But from it fly! 

Beaumont and Fletcher. 


Love is a Sickness. 

Love is a sickness full of woes, 

All remedies refusing; 

A plant that with most cutting grows, 
Most barren with best using: 

Why so ? 

More we enjoy it, more it dies ; 

If not enjoy’d, it sighing cries, 

Hey, ho! 

Love is a torment of the mind, 

A tempest everlasting; 

And Jove hath made it of a kind 
Not well, nor full, nor fasting : 

Why so ? 

More we enjoy it, more it dies; 

If not enjoy’d, it sighing cries, 

Hey, ho! 

Samuel Daniel. 

Panglorts Wooing Song. 

Love is the blossom where there blows 
Everything that lives or grows: 

Love doth make the heavens to move, 

And the sun doth burn in love; 

Love the strong and weak doth yoke, 

And makes the ivy climb the oak, 

Under whose shadows lions wild, 

Soften’d by love, grow tame and mild. 
Love no med’cine can appease; 

He burns the fishes in the seas; 

Not all the skill his wounds can stanch ; 
Not all the sea his fire can quench. 

Love did make the bloody spear 
Once a leafy coat to wear, 


| While in his leaves there shn/^ded lay 
Sweet birds, for love that sing and play; 
And of all love’s joyful flame 
j I the bud and blossom am. 

Only bend thy knee to me— 

| Thy wooing shall thy winning be. 

See! see the flowers that below 
Now freshly as the morning blow. 

And of all, the virgin rose, 

That as bright Aurora shows— 

How they all unleavkl die, 

Losing their virginity; 

| Like unto a summer shade, 

But now born, and now they fade: 
Everything doth pass away ; 
j There is danger in delay. 

Come, come, gather then the rose; 
Gather it, or it you lose. 

! All the sand of Tagus’ shore 
In my bosom casts its ore; 

All the valleys’ swimming corn 
To my house is yearly borne; 

Every grape of every vine 
Is gladly bruised to make me wine; 
While ten thousand kings, as proud 
To carry up my train, have bow’d ; 

And a world of ladies send me, 

In my chambers to attend me; 

All the stars in heaven that shine, 

And ten thousand more, are mine. 

Only bend thy knee to me— 

Thy wooing shall thy winning be. 

Giles Fletcher 

Rosalind’s Madrigal. 

Love in my bosom, like a bee, 

Doth suck b is sweet; 

Now with his wings he plays with me, 
Now with his feet. 

Within mine eyes he makes his nest, 
His bed amidst mv tender breast; 

My kisses are his daily feast, 

And yet he robs me of my rest: 

Ah, wanton, will ye? 

And if I sleep, then perclieth he 
With pretty flight, 

And makes his pillow of my knee 
The livelong night. 







99 


POEMS OF LOVE. 


Strike I my lute, lie tunes the string: 

He music plays if so I sing; 

He lends me every lovely thing, 

Vet cruel he my heart doth sting: 

Whist, wanton, still ye : 

Else I with roses every day 
Will whip you hence, 

And bind you, when you long to play, 
For your offence; 

I’ll shut mine eyes to keep you in, 

I’ll make you fast it for your sin, 

I’ll count your power not worth a pin : 
Alas! what hereby shall I win, 

If he gainsay me? 

What if I beat the wanton boy 
With many a rod? 

' He will repay me with annoy, 

Because a god. 

Then sit thou safely on my knee, 

And let thy bower my bosom be; 

Lurk in mine eyes,—I like of thee, 

O Cupid ! so thou pity me, 

Spare not, but play thee. 

Thomas Lodge. 

LOVE STILL HATH SOMETHING OF 
THE Sea. 

Love still hath something of the sea, 
From whence his mother rose; 

No time his slaves from love can free, 
Nor give their thoughts repose. 

They are becalm’d in clearest days, 

And in rough weather toss’d; 

They wither under cold delays, 

Or are in tempests lost. 

One while they seem to touch the port; 

Then straight into the main 
Some angry wind, in cruel sport, 

The vessel drives again. 

At first disdain and pride they fear, 
Which if they chance to ’scape, 

Rivals and falsehood soon appear 
In a more dreadful shape. 

By such degrees to joy they come, 

And are so long withstood; 

So slowly they receive the sum, 

It hardly does them good. 


’Tis cruel to prolong a pain ; 

And to defer a bliss, 

Believe me, gentle Hermoine, 

No less inhuman is. 

A hundred thousand oaths your fears 
Perhaps would not remove ; 

And if I gazed a thousand years, 

I could no deeper love. 

’Tis fitter much for you to guess 
Than for me to explain, 

But grant, oh! grant that happiness 
Which only does remain. 

Sir Charles Sedley. 

Love\s Omnipresence. 

Were I as base as is the lowly plain, 

And you, my Love, as high as heaven above, 
Yet should the thoughts of me your humble 
swain 

Ascend to heaven, in honor of my Love. 
Were I as high as heaven above the plain, 
And you, my Love, as humble and as low 
As are the deepest bottoms of the main, 
Wheresoe’er you were, with you my love 
should go. 

Were you the earth, dear Love, and I the 
skies, 

My love should shine on you like to the sun, 
And look upon you with ten thousand eyes 
Till heaven wax’d blind, and till the world 
were done. 

Wheresoe’er I am, below, or else above you, 
Wheresoe’er you are, my heart shall truly 
love you. 

Joshua Sylvester. 

Cupid and Campaspe 

Cupid and my Campaspe playd 
At cardes for kisses; Cupid payd : 

He stakes his quiver, bow and arrows, 

His mothers doves, andteame of sparrows j 
Loses them too; then down he throws 
The coral of his lippe, the rose 
Growing on’s cheek (but none knows licw) 

! With these, the crystal of his browe, 
i And then the dimple of his chinne ; 

All these did my Campaspe winne. 

At last he set her both his eyes, 

I She won, and Cupid blind did rise. 








100 


FIRESIDE ENCYCLOPAEDIA OF POETRY. 


O Love! has she done this to thee? 
What shall, alas! become of mee? 

John Lyi.y. 

-- +04 - 

Love. 

Alt. thoughts, all passions, all delights, 
Whatever stirs this mortal frame, 

All are but ministers of Love, 

And feed his sacred flame. 

Oft in my waking dreams do I 
Live o’er again that happy hour, 

When midway on the mount 1 lay, 

Beside the ruin’d tower. 

The moonshine, stealing o’er the scene, 
Had blended with the lights of eve; 

And she was there, my hope, my joy, 

My own dear Genevieve! 

She leant against the armed man, 

The statue of the armed knight; 

She stood and listen’d to mv lay, 

Amid the lingering light. 

Few sorrows hath she of her own 
My hope! my joy! my Genevieve! 

She loves me best, whene’er I sing 
The songs that make her grieve. 

I play’d a soft and doleful air, 

I sang an old and moving story— 

An old rude song, that suited well 
That ruin wild and hoary. 

{■die listen'd with a flitting blush, 

With downcast eyes and modest grace; 

For well she knew, I could not choose 
But gaze upon her face. 


But when 1 told the cruel scorn 
That crazed that bold and lovely Knight. 

And that he cross’d the mountain-woods, 
Nor rested day nor night; 

That sometimes from the savage den, 

And sometimes from the darksome shade 

And sometimes starting up at once 
In green and sunny glade, 

There came and look’d him in the face 
An angel beautiful and bright ; 

And that he knew it was a Fiend, 

This miserable Knight! 

And that, unknowing what he did, 
lie leap’d amid a murderous band, 

And saved from outrage worse than death 
The Lady of the Landv! 

And how she wept, and clasp’d his knees; 
And how she tended him in vain— 

And ever strove to expiate 
The scorn that crazed his brain. 

And that she nursed him in a cave; 

And how his madness went away, 

When on the yellow forest-leaves 
A dying man he lay. 

TIis dying words-—but when I reach’d 
That tenderest strain of all the ditty, 

My faltering voice and pausing harp 
Disturb’d her soul with pity ! 

All impulses of soul and sense 

Had thrill’d my guileless Genevieve; 

The music, and the doleful tale, 

The rich and balmy eve; 


I told her of the Knight that wore 
Upon his shield a burning brand; 

And that for ten long years he woo’d 
The Lady of the Land. 

T told her how he pined; and ah ! 

The deep, the low, the pleading tone 
With which I sang another’s love, 
Interpreted my own. 

She listen'd with a flitting blush, 

With downcast eyes, and modest grace; 
And she forgave me, that I gazed 
Too fondly on her face. 


And hopes, and fears that kindle hope, 

An undistinguishable throng, 

And gentle wishes long subdued, 

Subdued and cherish’d long! 

She wept with pity and delight, 

She blush’d with love, and virgin-shame; 

And like the murmur of a dream, 

I heard her breathe my name. 

Her bosom heaved—she stepp’d aside, 

As conscious of my look she stepp’d— 

Then suddenly, with timorous eye 
She fled to me and wept. 










POEMS OF LOVE. 


101 


She half enclosed me with her arms, 

She press’d me with a meek embrace ; 
And bending back her head, look’d up, 
And gazed upon my face. 

’Twas partly Love, and partly Fear, 

And partly ’twas a bashful art, 

That T might rather feel than see, 

The swelling of her heart. 

I calm’d her fears, and she was calm, 

And told her love with virgin pride. 
And so I won my Genevieve, 

My bright and beauteous Bride. 

Samuel Taylor Coleridge. 

Not Ours the Foils’. 

Not ours the vows of such as plight 
Their troth in sunny weather, 

While leaves are green and skies are bright, 
To walk on flowers together. 

But we have loved as those who tread 
The thorny path of sorrow, 

With clouds above, and cause to dread 
Yet deeper gloom to-morrow. 

That thorny path, those stormy skies, 
Have drawn our spirits nearer, 

And rendered us, by sorrow’s ties, 

Each to the other dearer. 

Love, born in hours of joy and mirth, 
With mirth and joy may perish ; 

That to which darker hours gave birth 
Still more and more we cherish. 

It looks beyond the clouds of time, 

And through death’s shadowy portal, 
Made by adversity sublime, 

By faith and hope immortal. 

Bernard Barton. 

Sonnet. 

The doubt which ye misdeem, fair love, is 
vain, 

That fondly fear to lose your liberty; 
When, losing one, two liberties ye gain, 
And make him bound that bondage erst 
did fly. 

Sweet be the bands, the which true love 
doth tye 

Without constraint, or dread of any ill: 


The gentle bird feels no captivity 

Within her cage; but sings and feeds her 
fill; 

There pride dare not approach, nor discord 
spill 

The league ’twixt them that loyal love 
hath bound; 

But simple truth, and mutual good-will, 
Seeks, with sweet peace, to salve each 
other’s wound; 

There faith doth fearless dwell in brazen 
tower, 

And spotless pleasure builds her sacred 
bower. 

Edmund Spenser. 

Absence. 

What shall I do with all the days and 
hours 

That must be counted ere I see thy face? 

How shall I charm the interval that lowers 
Between this time and that sweet time 
of grace? 

Still I in slumber steep each weary sense— 
Weary with longing?. Shall I flee away 

Into past days, and with some fond pre¬ 
tence 

Cheat myself to forget the present day ? 

Shall love for thee lay on my soul the sin 
Of casting from me God’s great gift of 
time ? 

Shall I, these mists of memory locked 
within, 

Leave and forget life’s purposes sublime? 

Oh, how, or by what means, may I contrive 
To bring the hour that brings thee back 
more near? 

How may I teach my drooping hope to live 
Until that blessed time, and thou art here? 

I’ll tell thee; for thy sake I will lay hold 
Of all good aims, and consecrate to thee, 

In worthy deeds, each moment that is told 
While thou, beloved one! art far from me. 

For thee I will arouse my thoughts to try 
All heavenward flights, all high and holy 
strains; 

For thy dear sake I will walk patiently 
Through these long hours, nor call their 
minutes pains. 







102 


FIRESIDE ENCYCLOPEDIA OF POETRY. 


I will this dreary blank of absence make 
A noble task-time; and will therein strive 
To follow excellence, and to o’ertake 
More good than I have won since yet I 
live. 

So may this doomed time build up in me 
A thousand graces, which shall thus be 
thine; 

So may my love and longing hallowed be, 
And thy dear thought an influence 
divine, 

Frances Anne Kemble. 

IIow Many Times. 

How many times do I love thee, dear ? 
Tell me how many thoughts there be 
In the atmosphere 
Of a new-fallen year, 

Whose white and sable hours appear 
The latest flake of Eternity; 

So many times do I love thee, dear. 

How many times do I love thee, again ? 
Tell me how many beads there are 
In a silver chain 
Of the evening rain, 

Unravelled from the tumbling main, 
And threading the eye of a yellow star; 
So how many times do I love, again. 

Thomas Lovell Beddoes. 

Song. 

For me the jasmine buds unfold, 

And silver daisies star the lea, 

The crocus hoards the sunset gold, 

And the wild rose breathes for me. 

1 feel the sap through the bough returning, 
I share the skylark’s transport fine; 

I know the fountain’s wayward yearning— 
I love, and the world is mine! 

I love, and thoughts that some time grieved, 
Still, well remembered, grieve not me; 
From all that darkened and deceived 
Upsoars my spirit free. 

For soft the hours repeat one story, 

Sings the sea one strain divine, 

My clouds arise all flushed with glory— 
I love, and the world is mine! 

Florence Earle Coates. 


Samel a. 

Like to Diana in her summer weed, 

Girt with a crimson robe of brightest dye, 
Goes fair Samela; 

Whiter than be the flocks that straggling 
feed, 

When washed by Arethusa faint they lie, 

Is fair Samela ; 

As fair Aurora in her morning grey, 
Decked with the ruddy glister of her love, 
Is fair Samela; 

Like lovely Thetis, on a calm’d day, 

When as her brightness Neptune’s fancy 
move, 

Shines fair Samela; 

Her tresses gold, her eyes like glassy 
streams, 

Her teeth are pearl, the breasts are ivory 
Of fair Samela; 

Her cheeks, like rose and lily yield forth 
gleams, 

Her brows’-bright arches framed of ebony; 
Thus fair Samela 

Passeth fair Venus in her bravest hue, 

And Juno in the show of majesty, 

For she’s Samela: 

Pallas in wit, all three, if you will view, 
For beauty, wit, and matchless dignity 
Yield to Samela. 

Robert Greene. 


Robin Adair. 

What’s this dull town to me? 

Robin’s not near,— 

He whom I wished to see, 
Wished for to hear! 

Where’s all the joy and mirth 
Made life a heaven on earth? 
Oh, they’re all fled with thee, 
Robin Adair! 

What made the assembly shine ? 
Robin Adair. 

What made the ball so fine? 

Robin was there! 

What, when the play was o’er, 
What made my heart so sore ? 
Oh, it was parting with 
Robin Adair! 

Rut now thou’rt far from me, 
Robin Adair; 









f OEMS OF LOVE. 


103 


But now I never see 
Robin Adair; 

Yet he I loved so well 
(Still in my heart shall dwell: 

Oh, I can ne’er forget 
Robin Adair! 

Welcome on shore again, 

Robin Adair! 

Welcome once more again, 

Robin Adair! 

I feel thy trembling hand; 

Tears in thy eyelids stand, 

To greet thy native land, 

Robin Adair. 

Long I ne’er saw thee, love, 

Robin Adair; 

Still I prayed for thee, love, 

Robin Adair. 

When thou wert far at sea, 

Many made love to me; 

But still I thought on thee, 

Robin Adair. 

Come to my heart again, 

Robin Adair; 

Never to part again, 

Robin Adair! 

And if thou still art true, 

I will be constant too, 

And will wed none but you, 

Robin Adair. 

Lady Caroline Keppkl. 

Wa A V, WA L r, B UT LO VE BE BONN )'. 

Oil waly waly up the bank, 

And waly waly down the brae, 

And waly waly yon burn side, 

Where I and my love were wont to gac. 

I leant my back unto an aik, 

I thought it was a trusty tree! 

But first it bow’d, and syne it brak, 

Sae my true love did lichtly me. 

Oh waly waly gin love be bonny, 

A little time while it is new; 

But when its auld, it waxeth cauld, 

And fades awa’ like morning dew. 

Oh wherefore shuld I busk my head? 

Or wherefore shuld I kame my hair? 
For my true love has me forsook, 

And says he’ll never lo’e me mair. 


Now Arthur-seat sail be mv bod, 

The sheets sail ne’er be fyl’d by me: 

Saint Anton’s well sail be my drink, 

Since my true love has forsaken me. 

Marti’mas wind, when wilt thou blaw, 

And shake the green leaves aff the tree? 

O gentle death, whan wilt thou cum? 

For of my life I am wearle. 

Tis not the frost, that freezes fell, 

Nor blowing snaws inclemencie ; 

"Pis not sic cauld, that makes me cry, 

But my loves heart grown cauld to me. 

When we came in by Glasgowe town, 

We were a comely sight to see, 

My love was cled in black velvet, 

And I my sell in cramasie. 

But had I wist, before I kisst, 

That love had been sae ill to win ; 

I had lockt my heart in a case of gowd, 
And pinn’d it with a siller pin. 

And, oh ! if my young babe were born, 
And set upon the nurses knee, 

And I my sell were dead and gane - 1 
For a maid again Ise never be. 

Author Unknown 


Lines to an Indian Am. 

I arise from dreams of thee 
In the first sweet sleep of night, 
When the winds are breathing low, 
And the stars are shining bright : 
I arise from dreams of thee, 

And a spirit in my feet 
Has led me—who knows how?— 

To thy chamber-window, sweet! 

The wandering airs they faint 
On the dark, the silent stream— 
The champak odors fail 

Like sweet thoughts in a dream ; 
The nightingale’s complaint, 

It dies upon her heart, 

As I must on thine, 

Beloved as thou art! 

Oh lift me from the grass ! 

I die, I faint, I fail! 

Let thy love in kisses rain 
On my lips and eyelids pale. 











104 


FIRESIDE ENCYCLOPAEDIA OF POETRY. 


My cheek is cold and white, alas! 

My heart beats loud and fast, 

Oh! press it close to thine again, 

Where it will break at last. 

Percy Bysshe Shelley. 

Why so Pale ? 

Why so pale and wan, fond lover? 

Prethee, why so pale? 

Will, when looking well can’t move her, 
Looking ill prevail? 

Prethee why so pale? 

Why so dull and mute, young sinner? 

Prethee, why so mute? 

Will, when speaking well can’t win her, 
Saying nothing do’t? 

Prethee why so mute ? 

Quit, quit for shame; this will not move, 
This cannot take her; 

If of herself she will not love, 

Nothing can make her, 

The devil take her! 

Sir John Suckling. 

Lady Geraldine’s Courtship. 

A Romance of the Age. 

A poet writes to his friend. Place —A room in Wycombe 
Hall. Time —Late in the evening. 

Dear my friend and fellow-student, I 
would lean mv spirit o’er you ! 
Down the purple of this chamber tears 
should scarcely run at will. 

I am humbled who was humble. Friend, 
T bow my head before you: 

You should lead me to my peasants, but 
their faces are too still. 

There’s a lady, an earl’s daughter—she is 
proud and she is noble, 

And she treads the crimson carpet, and 
she breathes the perfumed air, 

And a kingly blood sends glances up, her 
M-incelv eve to trouble, 

And the shadow of a monarch’s crown is 
soften’d in her hair. 


And the palpitating engines snort in steam 
across her acres, 

As they mark upon the blasted heaven 
the measure of the land. 

There are none of England’s daughters 
who can show a prouder presence ; 

Upon princely suitors, praying, she has 
look’d in her disdain, 

She was sprung of English nobles, I was 
born of English peasants ; 

What was I that I should love her, save 
for competence to pain ? 

I was only a poor poet, made for singing 
at her casement, 

As the finches or the thrushes, while she 
thought of other things. 

Oh, she walk’d so high above me, she ap¬ 
pear’d to my abasement, 

In her lovely silken murmur, like an 
angel clad in wings ! 

Many vassals bow before her as her car¬ 
riage sw r eeps their door-ways; 

She has blest their little children, as a 
priest or queen were she : 

Far too tender, or too cruel far, her smile 
upon the poor was, 

For I thought it was the same smile 
which she used to smile on me. 

She has voters in the commons, she has 
lovers in the palace, 

And of all the fair court-ladies, few have 
jewels half as fine ; 

Oft the prince has named her beauty ’twixt 
the red wine and the chalice : 

Oh, and what was I to love her ? my be¬ 
loved, my Geraldine! 

Yet I could not choose but love her : I was 
born to poet-uses, 

To love all things set above me, all of 
good and all of fair. 

Nymphs of mountain, not of valley, we 
are wont to call the Muses; 

And in nympholeptic climbing, poets 
pass from mount to star. 


She has halls among the woodlands, she And because I was a poet, and because the 
has castles by the breakers, public praised me, 

She has farms and she has manors, she With a critical deduction for the modern 
can threaten and command, writer’s fault, 











POEMS OF LOVE. 


105 


[ could sit at rich men’s tables—though 
the courtesies that raised me, 

Still suggested clear between us the pale 
spectrum of the salt. 

And they praised me in her presence 

“ Will your book appear this sum¬ 
mer ?” 

Then returning to each other—“Yes, 
our plans are for the moors.” 

Then with whisper dropp’d behind me— 
“ There he is ! the latest comer. 

Oh, she only likes his verses! what is 
over, she endures. 

“Quite low-born, self-educated! somewhat 
gifted though by Nature, 

And we make a point of asking him— 
of being very kind. 

You may speak, he does not hear you ! 
and besides he writes no satire— 

All these serpents kept by charmers leave 
the natural sting behind.” 

I grew scornfuller, grew colder, as I stood 
up there among them, 

Till as frost intense will burn you, the 
cold scorning scorch’d my brow ; 

When a sudden silver speaking, gravely 
cadenced, overrung them, 

And a sudden silken stirring touch’d 
my inner nature through. 

I look’d upward and beheld her. With a 
calm and regnant spirit, 

Slowly round she swept her eyelids, and 
said clear before them all—— 

“ Have you such superfluous honor, sir, 
that, able to confer it, 

You will come down, Mister Bertram, as 
my guest to Wycombe Hall ?” 

Here she paused; she had been paler at 
the first word of her speaking, 

But because a silence follow’d it, blush’d 
somewhat, as for shame, 

Then, as scorning her own feeling, resumed 
calmly—“ I am seeking 
More distinction than these gentlemen 
think worthy of my claim. 

Ne’ertheless, you see, I seek it—not be¬ 
cause I am a woman ” 

(Here her smile sprang like a fountain, 
and, so, overflow’d her mouth), 


“ But because my woods in Sussex have 
some purple shades at gloaming 
Which are worthy of a king in state, or 
poet in his youth. 

“ I invite you, Mister Bertram, to no scene 
for worldly speeches— 

8ir, 1 scarce should dare — hut only 
where God ask’d the thrushes first: 

And if you will sing beside them, in the 
covert of my beeches, 

I will thank you for the woodlands, . . . 
for the human world, at worst.” 

Then she smiled around right childly, then 
she gazed around right queenly, 
And I bow’d—I could not answer; al¬ 
ternated light and gloom— 

While as one who quells the lions, with a 
steady eye serenely, 

She, with level fronting eyelids, pass’d 
out stately from the room. 

Oh, the blessed woods of Sussex, I can hear 
them still around me, 

With their leafy tide of greenery still 
rippling up the wind. 

Oh, the cursed woods of Sussex ! where the 
hunter’s arrow found me, 

When a fair face and a tender voice had 
made me mad and blind ! 

In that ancient hall of Wycombe throng’d 
the numerous guests invited, 

And the lovely London ladies trod the 
floors with gliding feet; 

And their voices low with fashion, not with 
feeling, softly freighted 
AH the air about the windows with elas¬ 
tic laughter sweet. 

For at eve the open windows flung their 
light out on the terrace 
Which the floating orbs of curtains did 
with gradual shadow sweep, 

While the swans upon the river, fed at 
morning by the heiress, 

Trembled downward through their snowy 
wings at music in their sleep. 

And there evermore was music, both of 
instrument and singing, 

Till the finches of the shrubberies grew 
restless in the dark ; 





106 


FIRESIDE ENCYCLOPAEDIA OF POETRY. 


But the cedars stood up motionless, each 
in a moonlight ringing, 

.And the deer, half in the glimmer, 
strow’d the hollows of the park. 

And though sometimes she would bind me 
with her silver-corded speeches 
To commix my words and laughter with 
the converse and the jest, 

3ft I sate apart, and, gazing on the*river 
through the beeches, 

Heard, as pure the swans swam down it, 
her pure voice o’erlloat the rest. 

In the morning, horn of huntsman, hoof 
of steed, and laugh of rider, 

Spread out cheery from the courtyard 
till we lost them in the hills, 

While herself and other ladies, and her 
suitors left beside her, 

Went a-wandering up the gardens 
through the laurels and abeles. 

Thus, her foot upon the new-mown grass, 
bareheaded, with the flowing 
Of the virginal white vesture gather’d 
closely to her throat, 

And the golden ringlets in her neck just 
quicken’d by her going, 

And appearing to breathe sun for air, 
and doubting if to float,— 

With a bunch of dewy maple, which her 
right hand held above her, 

And which trembled a green shadow in 
betwixt her and the skies, 

As she turn’d her face in going, thus, she 
drew me on to love her, 

And to worship the divineness of the 
smile hid in her eyes. 

For her eyes alone smile constantly; her 
lips have serious sweetness, 

And her front is calm, the dimple rarely 
ripples on the cheek ; 

But her deep-blue eyes smile constantly, 
as if they in discreetness 
Kept the secret of a happy dream she 
did not care to speak. 


Spake she unto all and unto me—“ Be¬ 
hold, I am the warden 
Of the song-birds in these lindens, 
which are cages to their mind. 

“ But within this swarded circle into which 
the lime-walk brings us, 

Whence the beeches, rounded greenly, 
stand away in reverent fear, 

I will let no music enter, saving what the 
fountain sings us 

Which the lilies round the basin may 
seem pure enough to hear. 

“ The live air that waves the lilies waves 
the slender jet of water 
Like a holy thought sent feebly up from 
soul of fasting saint: 

Whereby lies a marble Silence, sleeping 
(Lough the sculptor wrought her), 
So asleep she is forgetting to say Hush ; 
—a fancy quaint. 

“ Mark how heavy white her eyelids ! not 
a dream between them lingers ; 

And the left hand’s index droppeth from 
the lips upon the cheek : 

While the right hand-—with the symbol- 
rose held slack within the fingers— 
Has fallen backward in the basin—yet 
this Silence will not speak ! 

“ That the essential meaning growing may 
exceed the special symbol, 

Is the thought as I conceive it,: it ap¬ 
plies more high and low. 

Our true noblemen will often through 
right nobleness grow humble, 

And assert an inward honor by denying 
outward show.” 

“ Nay, your Silence,” said I, “truly, holds 
her symbol-rose but slackly, 

A ct she holds if, or would scarcely be a 
Silence to our ken : 

And your nobles wear their ermine on the 
outside, or walk blackly 
In the presence of the social law as mere 
ignoble men. 


rims she drew me the first morning, out “Let the poets dream such dreaming! 
across into the garden, madam, in these British islands 

And I walk’d among her noble friends, 'Tis the substance that wanes ever, ‘tis 
and could not keep behind. the symbol that exceeds. 






POEMS OF LOVE. 


107 


Soon we shall have naught but symbol, and, 
for statues like this Silence, 

Shall accept the rose’s image—in another 
case, the weed’s.” 

“ Not so quickly,” she retorted—“ l con¬ 
fess, where’er you go, you 
Find for things, names—shows for ac¬ 
tions, and pure gold for honor clear: 

But when all is run to symbol in the Social, 
I will throw you 

The world’s book which now reads drily, 
and sit down with Silence here.” 

Half in playfulness she spoke, I thought, 
and half in indignation; 

Friends who listen’d laugh’d her words 
off, while her lovers deem’d her fair: 

A fair woman, flush’d with feeling, in her 
noble-lighted station 
Near the statue’s white reposing—and 
both bathed in sunny air! 

With the trees round, not so distant but 
you heard their vernal murmur, 
And beheld in light and shadow the 
leaves in and outward move, 

And the little fountain leaping toward the 
sun-heart to be warmer, 

Then recoiling in a tremble from the too 
much light above. 

’Tis a picture for remembrance. And thus, 
morning after morning, 

1 >id I follow as she drew me by the spirit 
to her feet. 

Why, her greyhound followed also! dogs— 
we both were dogs for scorning— 

To be sent back when she pleased it and 
her path lay through the wheat. 

And thus, morning after morning, spite of 
vows and spite of sorrow, 

Did I follow at her drawing, while the 
week-days pass’d along, 

Just to feed the swans this noontide, or to 
see the fawns to-morrow, 

Or to teach the hillside echo some sweet 
Tuscan in a song. 

Ay, for sometimes on the hillside, while 
we sate down in the gowans, 

With the forest green behind us and its 
shadow cast before, 


And the river running under, and across it 
from the rowans 

A brown partridge whirring near us till 
we felt the air it bore— 

There, obedient to her praying, did I read 
aloud the poems 

Made to Tuscan flutes, or instruments 
more various of our own ; 

Read the pastoral parts of Spenser, or the 
subtle interflowings 

Found in Petrarch’s sonnets—here’s the 
book, the leaf is folded down ! 

Or attimes a modern volume, Wordsworth’s 
solemn-thoughted idyl, 

Howitt’s ballad-verse, or Tennyson’s 
enchanted reverie— 

Or from Browning some “ Pomegranate,” 
which, if cut deep down the middle, 
Shows a heart within blood-tinctured, 
of a vein’d humanity. 

Or at times I read there, hoarsely, some 
new poem of my making: 

Poets ever fail in reading their own 
verses to their worth, 

For the echo in you breaks upon the words 
which you are speaking, 

And the chariot wheels jar in the gate 
through which you drive them forth. 

After, when we were grown tired of books, 
the silence round us flinging 
A slow arm of sweet compression, felt 
with beatings at the breast, 

She would break out on a sudden in a gush 
of woodland singing, 

Like a child’s emotion in a god—a naiad 
tired of rest. 

Oh, to see or hear her singing! scarce I 
know which is divinest, 

For her looks sing too—she modulates 
her gestures on the tune, 

And her mouth stirs with the song, like 
song; and when the notes are finest, 
’Tis the eyes that shoot out vocal light 
and seem to swell them on. 

Then we talk’d—oh, how we talk’d! her 
voice, so cadenced in the talking, 
Made another singing—M the soul! a 
music without bars: 










108 


FIRESIDE ENCYCLOPAEDIA OF POETRY. 


While the leafy sounds of woodlands, hum¬ 
ming round where we were walking, 
Brought interposition worthy-sweet—as 
skies about the stars. 

And she spake such good thoughts natural, 
as if she always thought them ; 

She had sympathies so rapid, open, free 
as bird on branch, 

list as ready to fly east as west, whichever 
way besought them, 

In the birchen-wood it chirrup, or a 
cock-crow in the grange. 

In her utmost lightness there is truth— 
and often she sjieaks lightly, 

Has a grace in being gay which even 
mournful souls approve, 

For the root of some grave earnest thought 
is understruck so rightly 
As to justify the foliage and the waving 
flowers above. 

And she talk’d on —we talk’d, rather!— 
upon all things, substance, shadow, 

()f the sheep that browsed the grasses, 
of the reapers in the corn, 

Of the little children from the schools, 
seen winding through the meadow, 
Of the poor rich world beyond them, 
still kept poorer by its scorn. 

Bo, of men, and so, of letters—books are 
men of higher stature, 

And the only men that speak aloud for 
future times to hear; 

Bo, of mankind in the abstract, which 
grows slowly into nature, 

Yet will lift the cry of “progress,” as it 
trod from sphere to sphere. 

\ ml her custom was to praise me when I 
said—“ The Age culls simples, 

With a broad clown’s back turn’d broadly 
to the glory of the stars. 

We are gods by our own reck’ning, and 
may well shut up the temples, 

And wield on, amid the incense-steam, 
the thunder of our cars. 

“ For we throw out acclamations of self- 
thanking, self-admiring, 

With, at every mile run faster,—‘ O the 
wondrous, wondrous age!’ 


Little thinking if we work our SOULS as 
nobly as our iion, 

Or if angels will commend us at the goal 
of pilgrimage. 

“Why, what is this patient entrance into 
nature’s deep resources 
But the child’s most gradual learning to 
walk upright without bane? 

When we drive out, from the cloud of 
steam, majbstical white horses, 

Are we greater than the first men who 
led black ones by the mane? 

“ If we trod the deeps of ocean, if we 
struck the stars in rising, 

If we wrapp’d the globe intensely with 
one hot electric breath, 

’Twere but power within our tether, no new 
spirit-power comprising, 

And in life we were not greater men, nor 
bolder men in death.” 

She was patient with my talking; and 1 
loved her, loved her, certes, 

•As I loved all heavenly objects, with up¬ 
lifted eyes and hands; 

As I loved pure inspirations, loved the 
graces, loved the virtues, 

In a Love content with writing his own 
name on desert sands. 

Or at least I thought so, purely; thought 
no idiot Hope was raising 
Any crown to crown Love’s silence, 
silent love that sate alone: 

Out, alas! the stag is like me, he that 
tries to go on grazing 
With the great deep gun-wound in his 
neck, then reels with sudden moan. 

It was thus I reel’d. I told you that her 
hand had many suitors; 

But she smiles them down imperially, as 
Venus did the waves, 

And with such a gracious coldness that 
they cannot press their futures 
On the present of her courtesy, which 
yieldingly enslaves. 

And this morning as I sat alone within 
the inner chamber 

With the great saloon beyond it, lost in 
pleasant thought serene, 










POEMS OF LOVE. 


100 


For 1 had been reading Camoens, that 
poem, you remember, 

Which his lady’s eyes are praised in as 
the sweetest ever seen. 

And the book lay open, and my thought 
Hew from it, taking from it 
A vibration and impulsion to an end be¬ 
yond its own, 

As the branch of a green osier, when a 
child would overcome it, 

Springs up freely from his claspings and 
goes swinging in the sun. 

As 1 mused I heard a murmur; it grew 
deep as it grew longer, 

Speakers using earnest language —“ Lady 
Geraldine, you would/” 

And I heard a voice that pleaded, ever on 
in accents stronger, 

As a sense of reason gave it power to 
make its rhetoric good. 

Well I knew that voice; it was an earl’s, 
of soul that match’d his station, 
Soul completed into lordship, might and 
right read on his brow; 

Very finely courteous; far too proud to 
doubt his domination 
Of the common people, he atones for 
grandeur by a bow. 

High straight forehead, nose of eagle, cold 
blue eyes of less expression 
Than resistance, coldly casting off the 
looks of other men, 

As steel, arrows ; unelastic lips which seem 
to taste possession, 

And be cautious lest the common air 
should injure or distrain. 

For the rest, accomplish’d, upright—ay, 
and standing by his order 
With a bearing not ungraceful; fond of 
art and letters too; 

Just a good man made a proud man—as 
the sandy rocks that border 
A wild coast, by circumstances, in a 
regnant ebb and flow. 

Thus, 1 knew that voice, I heard it, and I 
could not help the hearkening: 

In the room I stood up blindly, and my 
burning heart within 


Seem’d to seethe and fuse my senses till 
they ran on all sides darkening, 

And scorch’d, weigh’d like melted metal 
round my feet that stood therein. 

And that voice, I heard it pleading, for 
love’s sake, for wealth, position, 
For the sake of liberal uses and great 
actions to be done— 

And she interrupted gently, “ Nay, my 
lord, the old tradition 
Of your Normans, by some worthier hand 
than mine is, should be won.” 

“ Ah, that white hand!” he said quickly— 
and in his he either drew it 
Or attempted—for with gravity and in¬ 
stance she replied, 

“Nay indeed, my lord, this talk is vain, 
and we had best eschew it 
And pass on, like friends, to other points 
less easy to decide.” 

What he said again, I know not: it is 
likely that his trouble 
Work’d his pride up to the surface, for 
she answer’d in slow scorn, 

“ And your lordship judges rightly. Whom 
I marry, shall be noble, 

Ay, and wealthy. I shall never blush to 
think how he was born.” 

There, I madden’d! her words stung me. 
Life swept through me into fever. 
And my soul sprang up astonish’d, 
sprang full-statured in an hour. 

Know you what it is when anguish, with 
apocalyptic never, 

To a Pythian height dilates you, and 
despair sublimes to power? 

From my brain the soul-wings budded, 
waved a flame about my body, 
Whence conventions coil’d to ashes. 1 
felt self-drawn out, as man, 

From amalgamate false natures, and I saw 
the skies grow ruddy 
With the deepening feet of angels, and I 
knew what spirits can. 

I was mad, inspired—say either! (anguish 
worketh inspiration) 

Was a man or beast—perhaps so, for the 
tiger roars when spear’d ; 






no 


FIRESIDE ENCYCLOPAEDIA OF POETRY. 


And I walk’d on, step by step along the 
level of my passion— 

0 my soul! and pass’d the doorway to 
her face, and never fear’d. 

He had left her, peradventure, when my 
footstep proved my coming, 

But for her —she half arose, then sate, 
grew scarlet and grew pale. 

Oh, she trembled! ’tis so always with a 
worldly man or w T oman 
In the presence of true spirits; what else 
can they do but quail ? 

Oh, she flutter’d like a tame bird, in 
among its forest brothers 
Far too strong for it ; then drooping, 
bow’d her face upon her hands; 

And I spake out wildly, fiercely, brutal 
truths of her and others; 

I, she planted in the desert, swathed her, 
windlike, with my sands. 

I pluck’d up her social fictions, bloody- 
rooted though leaf-verdant, 

Trod them down with words of shaming, 
all the purple and the gold, 

All the “landed stakes” and lordships, 
all that spirits pure and ardent 
Are cast out of love and honor because 
chancing not to hold. 

“ For myself I do not argue,” said I, 
“ though I love you, madam, 

But for better souls that nearer to the 
height of yours have trod. 

And this age shows, to my thinking, still 
more infidels to Adam 
Than directly, by profession, simple infi¬ 
dels to God. 

“Yet, O God,” I said, “O grave,” I said, 
“ O mother’s heart and bosom, 

With whom first and last are equal, saint 
and corpse and little child, 

We are fools to your deductions in these 
figments of heart-closing, 

We are traitors to your causes in these 
sympathies defiled. 

‘ Learn more reverence, madam; not for 
rank or wealth— that needs no learn¬ 
ing ; 

That comes quickly, quick as sin does; 
ay, and culminates to sin ; 


But for Adam’s seed, man ! Trust me, ’tis 
a clay above your scorning, 

With God’s image stamp’d upon it, and 
God’s kindling breath within. 

“What right have you, madam, gazing in 
your palace mirror daily, 

Getting so by heart your beauty, which 
all others must adore, 

While you draw the golden ringlets down 
your fingers, to vow gaily 
You will wed no man that’s only good to 
God, and nothing more? 

“Why, what right have you, made fair by 
that same God, the sweetest woman 
Of all women he has fashion’d, with 
your lovely spirit-face, 

Which would seem too near to vanish if 
its smile were not so human, 

And your voice of holy sweetness, turn¬ 
ing common words to grace, 

“ What right can you have, God’s other 
works to scorn, despise, revile them 
In the gross, as mere men, broadly—not 
as noble men, forsooth— 

As mere Pariahs of the outer world, forbid¬ 
den to assoil them 

In the hope of living, dying, near that 
sweetness of your mouth ? 

“Have you any answer, madam? If my 
spirit were less earthly, 

If its instrument were gifted with a 
better silver string, 

I would kneel down where I stand, and 
say, ‘ Behold me! I am worthy 
Of thy loving, for I love thee! I am 
worthy as a king.’ 

“ As it is—your ermined pride, I swear, 
shall feel this stain upon her, 

That 7, poor, weak, tost with passion 
scorn’d by me and you again, 

Love you, madam, dare to love you, to 
my grief and your dishonor, 

To my endless desolation and your im¬ 
potent disdain!” 

More mad words like these—mere mad¬ 
ness! friend, I need not write them 
fuller, 

For I hear my hot soul dropping on the 
lines in showers of tears. 







POEMS OF LOVE. 


Ill 


- # - 

Oh, a woman! friend, a woman! why, a 
beast had scarce been duller 
Than roar bestial loud complaints 
against the shining of the spheres. 

But at last there came a pause. I stood 
all vibrating with thunder 
Which my soul had used. The silence 
drew her face up like a call. 

Could you guess what word she utter’d? 
She look’d up, as if in wonder, 

With tears beaded on her lashes, and 
said, “ Bertram !”—it was all. 

If she had cursed me—and she might 
have—or if even with queenly bear¬ 
ing 

Which at need is used by women, she 
had risen up and said, 

“ Sir, you are my guest, and therefore I 
have given you a full hearing; 

Now, beseech you, choose a name exact¬ 
ing somewhat less, instead!” 

I had borne it: but that “ Bertram ”—why, 
it lies there on the paper 
A mere word, without her accent; and 
you cannot judge the weight 

Of the calm which crush’d my passion: 
I seem’d drowning in a vapor, 

And her gentleness destroy’d me whom 
her scorn made desolate. 

So, struck backward and exhausted by 
that inward flow of passion 
Which had rush’d on, sparing nothing, 
into forms of abstract truth, 

By a logic agonizing through unseemly 
demonstration, 

And by youth’s own anguish turning 
grimly gray the hairs of youth, 

By the sense accursed and instant, that if 
even I spake wisely 

1 spake basely, using truth, if what I 
spake indeed was true, 

To avenge wrong on a woman— her, who 
sate there weighing nicely 
A poor manhood’s worth, found guilty of 
such deeds as I could do!— 

By such wrong and woe exhausted—what I 
suffer'd and occasion’d,— 

As a wild horse through a city runs with 
lightning in his eyes, 


And then dashing at a church’s cold and 
passive wall, impassion’d, 

Strikes the death into his burning brain, 
and blindly drops and dies— 

So 1 fell, struck down before her—do you 
blame me, friend, for weakness? 
’Twas my strength of passion slew me! 
—fell before her like a stone; 

Fast the dreadful world roll’d from me 
on its roaring wheels of blackness : 
When the light came, I was lying in this 
chamber and alone. 

Oh, of course, she charged her lacqueys to 
bear out the sickly burden, 

And to cast it from her scornful sight, 
but not beyond the gate; 

She is too kind to be cruel, and too haughty 
not to pardon 

Such a man as I; ’twere something to be 
level to her hate. 

But for me—you now are conscious why, 
my friend, I write this letter, 

How my life is read all backward, and 
the charm of life undone. 

I shall leave her house at dawn; I would 
to-night, if I were better— 

And 1 charge my soul to hold my body 
strengthen’d for the sun. 

When the sun hath dyed the oriel, I depart 
with no last gazes, 

No weak moanings (one word only, left 
in writing for her hands), 

Out of reach of all derision, and some un¬ 
availing praises, 

To make front against this anguish in 
the far and foreign lands. 

Blame me not. I would not squander life 
in grief—I am abstemious. 

I but nurse my spirit’s falcon that its 
wing may soar again. 

There’s no room for tears of weakness in 
the blind eyes of a Phemius: 

Into work the poet kneads them, and he 
does not die till then. 

Conclusion. 

Bertram finish’d the last pages, while 
along the silence ever 
Still in hot and heavy splashes fell the 
tears on every leaf. 








112 


FIRESIDE ENCYCLOPAEDIA OF POETRY. 


Having ended, he leans backward in his 
chair, with lips that quiver 
From tlie deep unspoken, av, and deep 
unwritten thoughts of grief. 

Soli! how still the lady standeth! ’tis a 
dream—a dream of mercies! 

’Twixt the purple lattice-curtains how 
she standeth still and pale ! 

’Tis a vision, sure, of mercies, sent to soften 
his self-curses, 

Sent to sweep a patient quiet o’er the 
tossing of his wail. 

“ Eyes,” he said, “ now throbbing through 
me! are ye eyes that did undo me? 
Shining eyes, like antique jewels set in 
Parian statue-stone! 

Underneath that calm white forehead, are 
ye ever burning torrid 
O’er the desolate sand-desert of my heart 
and life undone?” 

With a murmurous stir uncertain, in the 
air the purple curtain 
Swelleth in and swelleth out around her 
motionless pale brows, 

While the gliding of the river sends a 
rippling noise for ever 
Through the open casement whiten’d by 
the moonlight’s slant repose. 

Said he: “ Vision of a lady! stand there 
silent, stand there steady! 

Now I see it plainly, plainly, now I can¬ 
not hope or doubt— 

There, the brows of mild repression—there, 
the lips of silent passion, 

Curved like an archer’s bow to send the 
bitter arrows out.” 

Ever, evermore the while in a slow silence 
she kept smiling, 

And approach’d him slowly, slowly, in a 
gliding measured pace; 

With her two white hands extended as if 
praying one offended, 

And a look of supplication gazing earnest 
in his face. 

Said he: “ Wake me by no gesture—sound 
of breath, or stir of vesture! 

Let the blessfed apparition melt not yet 
to its divine! 


-%- 

No approaching—hush, no breathing! or 
my heart must swoon to death in 
The too utter life thou bringest, O thou 
dream of Geraldine!” 

Ever, evermore the while in a slow silence 
she kept smiling, 

But the tears ran over lightly from her 
eyes and tenderly:— 

“Dost thou, Bertram, truly love me? Is 
no woman far above me 
Found more worthy of thy poet-heart 
than such a one as I?" 

Said he: “ T would dream so ever, like the 
flowing of that river, 

Flowi ng ever in a shadow greenly onward 
to the sea! 

So, thou vision of all sweetness, princely 
to a full completeness, 

Would mv heart and life flow onward, 
deathward, through this dream of 
thee !” 

Ever, evermore the while in a slow silence 
she kept smiling, 

While the silver tears ran faster down 
the blushing of her cheeks; 

Then with both her hands enfolding both 
of his, she softly told him, 

“ Bertram, if I say I love thee, . . . ’tis 
the vision only speaks.” 

Soften’d, quicken’d to adore her, on his 
knee he fell before her, 

And she whisper’d low in triumph, “It 
shall be as I have sworn. 

Very rich he is in virtues, very noble— 
noble, certes; 

And I shall not blush in knowing that 
men call him lowly-born.” 

Elizabeth Barrett Browning. 

- X X- 

The Nut-Brown Maid. 

Be it ryght, or wrong, these men among 
On women do complayne ; 

Aflyrmynge this, how that it is 
A labour spent in vayne, 

To love them wele ; for never a dele 
They love a man agayue : 

For late a man do what he can, 

Theyr favour to attayne, 










POEMS OF LOVE. 


113 


Vet, yf a newe do them persue, 

Tlievr first true lover than 
Laboureth for nought: for from her thought 
He is a banysh’d man. 


Than betwaine us late us dyscus 
What was all the manere 
Betwayne them two : we wyll also 
Tell all the payne, and fere, 

That she was in. Now I begyn 
So that ye me answfere ; 

Wherfore, all ye that present be 
1 pray you, gyve an ere : 

“ I am the knyglit; I come by nyght, 

As secret as I can ; 

Sayinge, Alas ! thus standeth the case, 
f am a banysh’d man.” 

SHE. 

And I your wyll for to fulfyll 
In this wyll nat refuse ; 

Trustying to shewe, in wordes fewe, 

That men have an yll use 
(To theyr own shame) women to blame, 
And causelesse them accuse ; 

Therfore to you I answere nowe, 

All women to excuse,— 

Myne owne hart dere, with you what chere ? 

I pray you, tell anone ; 

For, in my mynde, of all mankynde 
I love but you alone. 

HE. 

It standeth so ; a dede is do 
Whereof grete harme shall growe ; 

My destiny is for to dy 
A sliamefull deth, I trowe ; 

Or elles to tie : the one must be. 

None other way I knowe, 

8 


But to withdrawe as an outlawe, 

And take me to my bowe. 

Wherfore, adue, mv owne hart true ! 

None other rede I can ; 

For I must to the grene wode go, 

Alone, a banysh’d man. 

SHE. 

O Lord, what is thys worldys blysse, 

That changeth as the inone ! 

My somers day in lusty may 
Is derked before the none. 

I here you say farewell: Nay, nay, 

We depart nat so sonc. 

Why say ye so ? wheder wyll ye go'? 

Alas ! what have ye done ? 

All my welfare to sorrowe and care 
Sholde chaunge, yf ye were gone ; 

For in my mynde, of all mankynde 
I love but you alone. 

HE. 

I can beleve, it shall you greve, 

And somewhat you dystrayne ; 

But, aftyrwarde, your paynes harde 
Within a day or twayne 

Shall sone aslake ; and ye shall take 
Comfort to you agayne. 

Why sholde ye ought? for, to maice 
thought, 

Your labour were in vayne. 

And thus I do ; and pray you to 
As hartely, as I can ; 

For I must to the grene wode go, 

Alone, a banysh’d man. 

SHE. 

Now, syth that ye have shew’d to me 
The secret of your mynde, 

I shall be playne to you agayne, 

Lyke as ye shall me fvnde. 

Syth it is so, that ye wyll go, 

I wolle not leve behynde ? 

Shall never be sayd, the Not-browne Mayd 
Was to her love unkynde : 

Make you redy, for so am I, 

Allthough it were anone; 

For, in my mynde, of all mankynde 
I love but you alone. 

HE. 

Yet I you rede to take good hede 
What men wyll tliynke, and say* 


1 say nat nay, but that all day 
It is bothe writ and sayd 
That womans faith is, as who sayth, 

All utterly decayd; 

But, neverthelesse rvght good wytnfesse 
In this case might be layd, 

That they love true, and continue : 

Recorde the Not-browne Mayde : 

Which, when her love came, her to prove, 
To her to make his mone, 

Wolde nat depart; for in her hart 
She loved but hym alone. 






114 


FIRESIDE ENCYCLOPAEDIA OF POETRY. 


Of yonge, and olde it shall be tolde, 

That ye be gone away, 

Your wanton wyll for to fulfill, 

In grene wode you to play ; 

And that ye myght from your delyght 
No lenger make delay. 

Rather than ye sholde thus for me 
Be called an yll woman, 

Yet wolde I to the grene wode go 
Alone, a banysh’d man. 

SHE. 

Though it be songe of old and yonge, 

That I sholde be to blame, 

Theyrs be the charge, that speke so large 
In hurtynge of my name : 

For I wyll prove, that faythfulle love 
It is devoyd of shame ; 

In your dystresse, and hevynesse, 

To part with you, the same: 

And sure all tho, that do not so, 

True lovers are they none ; 

For, in my mynde, of all mankynde 
I love but you alone. 

HE. 

I c.ounceyle you, remember howe, 

It is no maydeus lawe, 

Nothynge to dout, but to rennc out 
To wode with an outlawe : 

For ye must there in your hand here 
A bo we, redy to drawe ; 

And, as a thefe, thus must you lyve, 

Ever in drede and awe ; 

Wherby to you grete harme myght growe: 
Yet had I lever than, 

That I had to the grene wode go, 

Alone, a banysh’d man. 

SHE. 

1 thinke nat nay, but as ye say, 

It is no maidens lore : 

But love may make me for your sake, 

As I have sayd before 

To come on fote, to hunt, and sliote 
To gete us mete in store ; 

For so that I your company 
May have, I aske no more: 

From which to part, it maketh my hart 
As colde as ony stone ; 

For in my mynde, of all mankynde 
I love but you alone. 


HE. 

For an outlawe this is the lawe, 

That men hym take and bvnde; 

Without pvte, hanged to be, 

And waver with the wynde, 

If I had nede, (as God forbede!) 

What rescous coude ye fynde ? 

I Forsoth, I trowe, ye and your bowe 
For fere wolde drawe behynde: 

And no mervayle ; for lytell avayle 
Were in your counceyle than : 

Wherfore I wyll to the grene wode go. 
Alone, a banysh’d man. 

SHE. 

Right wele know ye, that woman be 
But feble for to fygbt; 

No womanhede it is indede 
To be bolde as a knyght: 

Yet, in such fere vf that ye were 
With enemyes day or nyght, 

I wolde withstande, with bowe in hande 
To greve them as I myght, 

And you to save ; as women have 
From deth ‘ men ’ many one : 

For, in my mynde, of all mankynde 
I love but you alone. 

HE. 

Yet take good hede ; for ever I drede 
That ye coude nat sustavne 

The thornie wayes, the deep valleies, 
The snowe, the frost, the rayne, 

The colde, the liete : for dry, or wete, 
We must lodge on the playne ; 

And, us above, none other rofe 
But a brake bush, or twavne : 

I Which sone sholde greve you, 1 beleve • 
And ye wolde gladly than 
i That I had to the grene wode go, 

Alone, a banysh’d man. 


Syth I have here bene partyn&re 
With you of joy and blysse, 

I must also part of your wo 
Endure, as reson is : 

Yet am I sure of one plesitre 
And, sliortely, it is this : 

That, where ye be, me semeth, pardfe, 
I could not fare amysse. 





POEMS OF LOVE. 


115 


Without more speche, I you beseche 
That we were sone agoue: 

For in my inyude, of all mankynde 
I love but you alone. 

HE. 

If ye go thyder, ye must consyder, 
Whan ye have lust to dyne, 

There shall no mete be for you gete, 
Nor drinke, bere, ale, ne wyne. 

No schetfes clene, to lye betwene, 

Made of threde and twyne ; 

None other house, but leves and bowes, 
To cover your hed and myne. 

O myne harte swete, this evyll dyfete 
Sholde make you pale and wan ; 

Wherfore I wyll to the grene wode go, 
Alone, a banysh’d man. 

SHE. 

Amonge the wild dere, such an archfere, 
As men say that ye be, 

Ne may nat fayle of good vitayle, 
Where is so grete plentfe : 

And water clere of the ryvere 
Shall be full swete to me ; 

With which in hele I shall ryght wele 
Endure, as ye shall see; 

And, or we go, a bedde or two 
L can provyde anone; 

For, in my mynde, of all mankynde 
1 love but you alone. 

HE. 

Lo yet, before, ye must do more, 

Y* ye wyll go with me: 

As cut your here up by your ere, 

Your kyrtel by the kne; 

With bowe in hande, for to withstande 
Your enemyes yf nede be; 

And tnis same nyght before day-light, 
To wode-warde wvll I He. 

Yf that ye wyll all this fulfill, 
l)o it shortely as ye can ; 

Els wyll I to the grene wode go, 

Alone, a banysh’d man. 

SHE. 

I shall as nowe do more for you 
Than longeth to womanhede; 

To shote my here, a bowe to bere, 

To shoie in tyme of nede. 


0 my swete mother, before all other 
For you 1 have most drede: 

But nowe, adue! 1 must ensue, 

Where fortune doth me lede. 

All this make ye: Now let us He: 

The day cometh fast upon ; 

For, in my mynde, of all mankynde 
I love but you alone. 

HE. 

Nay, nay, nat so; ye shall nat go. 

And I shall tell ye why,— 

Your appetyght is to be lyght 
Of love, I wele espy: 

For, lyke as ye have sayd to me, 

In lyke wyse hardely 

Ye wolde answere whosoever it were, 

In way of company. 

It is sayd of olde, Sone bote, sone colder 
And so is a woman. 

Wherfore I to the wode wyll go, 

Alone, a banysh’d man. 

SHE. 

Yf ye take hede, it is no nede 
Such wordes to say by me; 

For oft ye pray’d, and longe assay’d, 

Or I you loved, pardfe; 

And though that I of auncestry 
A barons daughter be, 

Y r et have you proved howe I you loved 
A squyer of lowe degre ; 

And ever shall, whatso befall ; 

To dy therfore anone; 

For in my mynde, of all mankynde 
I love but you alone. 

HE. 

A barons cliylde to be begylde! 

It were a cursed dede; 

To be felawe with an outlawe! 

Almighty God forbede! 

Yet beter were, the pore squyere 
Alone to forest yede, 

Than ye sholde say another day, 

That, by my cursfed dede, 

Ye were betray’d: Wherfore, good mayd, 
The best rede that I can, 

Is, that I to the grene wode go, 
j Alone, a banysh’d man. 




116 


FIRESIDE ENCYCLOPAEDIA OF POETRY. 


SHE. 

Whatever befall, I never shall 
Of this thyng you upbrayd: 

But yf ye go, and leve me so, 

Then have ye me betrayd. 

Remember you wele, howe that ye dele; 
For, yf ye, as ye sayd, 

Be so unkynde, to leve behynde 
Your love the Not-browne Mayd, 

Trust me truly, that I shall dy 
Sone after ye be gone; 

For, in my mynde, of all mankynde 
I love but you alone. 

HE. 

Yf that ye went, ye sholde repent; 

For in the forest nowe 

T have purvay’d me of a mayd, 

Whom I love more than you; 

Another fayrfere, than ever ye were, 

I dare it wele avowe; 

And of ve bothe eche sholde be wrothe 
With other, as I trowe: 

It were myne ese, to lyve in pese; 

So wyll I, yf I can ; 

Wherfore I to the wode wyll go, 

Alone, a banysli’d man. 

SHE. 

Though in the wode I undyrstode 
Ye had a paramour, 

All this may nought remove my thought, 
But that I will be your: 

And she shall fynde me soft, and kynde, 
And courteys every hour; 

Glad to fulfyll all that she wyll 
Commaunde me to my power: 

For had ye, lo, an hundred mo, 

‘ Of them I wolde be one 

For, in my mynde, of all mankynde 
l love but you alone. 

HE. 

Mvne owne dere love, I se the prove 
That ye be kynde, and true: 

Of maydc, and wyfe, in all my lyfe, 

The best that ever I knewe. 

Be mery and glad, be no more sad, 

The ease is chaunged newe; 

For it were ruthe, that, for your truthe, 
Ve sholde have cause to rewe. 


Be nat dismay’d; whatsoever I savd 
To you, whan I began. 

I wyll nat to the grene wode go, 

I am no banysh’d man. 

SHE. 

These tydings be more gladd to me, 

Than to be made a quene, 

Yf I were sure they sholde endure; 

But it is often sene, 

Whan men wyll breke promyse, they 
speke 

The wordes on the splene. 

Ye shape some wyle me to begyle, 

And stele from me, I wene : 

Than were the case worse than it was. 

And I more wo-begone: 

For, in my mynde, of all mankynde 
I love but you alone. 

HE,. 

Ye shall nat nede further to drede; 

I will nat dysparitge 
You (God forfend!), syth ye descend 
Of so grete a lyn&ge. 

Nowe undyrstande; to Westmarlande, 
Which is myne herytage, 

I wyll you brynge, and with a rynge 
By way of maryage 
I wyll you take, and lady make, 

As shortely as I can : 

Thus have you won an erlys son 
And not a banysh’d man. 

Author. 

Here may ye se, that women be 
In love, meke, kynde, and stable; 

Late never man reprove them than, 

Or call them variable; 

But, rather, pray God that we may 
To them be comfortable. 

Which sometvme proveth such, as he lo . 
eth, 

Yf they be charytable. 

For syth men wolde that women sholde 
Be meke to them each one, 

Moche more ought they to God obey, 

And serve but Hym alone. 

Author Unknown. 






POEMS OF LOVE. 


117 


The Friar of Orders Gray. 

It was a friar of orders gray 
Walkt forth to tell his beades; 

And he met with a lady faire 
Clad in a pilgrime’s weedes. 

Now Christ thee save, thou reverend friar, 
I pray thee tell to me, 

If ever at yon holy shrine 
My true love thou didst see. 

And how should I know your true love 
For many another one ? 

O, by his cockle hat, and staff, 

And by his sandal shoone. 

But chiefly by his face and mien, 

That were so fair to view ; 

IIis flaxen locks that sweetly curl’d, 

And eyne of lovely blue. 

O ladv, he is dead and gone ! 

Lady, he’s dead and gone ! 

And at his head a green grass turfe, 

And at his heels a stone. 

Within these holy cloysters long 
Ho languisht and he dyed, 

Lamenting of a ladyes love, 

And ’plaining of her pride. 

Here bore him barefaced on his bier 
Six proper youths and tall, 

And many a tear bedew’d his grave 
Within yon kirk-yard wall. 

And art thou dead, thou gentle youth ! 
And art thou dead and gone! 

And didst thou dye for love of me ! 

Break, cruel heart of stone! 

O weep not, lady, weep not soe : 

Some ghostly comfort seek : 

Let not vain sorrow rive thy heart, 

Ne teares bedew thy cheek. 

O do not, do not, holy friar, 

My sorrows now reprove; 

For I have lost the sweetest youth 
That e’er wan ladyes love. 

And nowe, alas ! for thy sad losse, 

I’ll evermore weep and sigh: 

For thee 1 only wisht to live, 

For thee I wish to dye. 


Weep no more, lady, weep no more, 

Thy sorrowe is in vaine : 

For violets pluckt the sweetest showers 
Will ne’er make grow againe. 

Our joys as winged dreams doe flye, 

Why, then, should sorrow last? 

Since grief but aggravates thy losse, 
Grieve not for what is past. 

O say not soe, thou holy friar ; 

I pray thee say not soe : 

For since my true-love dyed for mee, 

’Tis meet my tears should flow. 

And will he ne’er come again ? 

Will he ne’er come again ? 

Ah ! no, he is dead and laid in his grave. 
For ever to remain. 

His cheek was redder than the rose ; 

The comeliest youth was he! 

But he is dead and laid in his grave.- 
Alas, and woe is me ! 

Sigh no more, ladv, sigh no more, 

Men were deceivers ever : 

One foot on sea and one on land, 

To one thing constant never. 

Hadst thou been fond, he had been false, 
And left thee sad and heavy; 

For young men ever were fickle found, 
Since summer trees were leafy. 

Now say not soe, thou holy friar, 

I pray thee say not soe ; 

My love he had the truest heart: 

O he was ever true! 

And art thou dead, thou much-loved youth, 
And didst thou dye for mee ? 

Then farewell home, for ever-more 
A pilgrim I will bee. 

But first upon my true-loves grave 
My weary limbs I’ll lay, 

And thrice I’ll kiss the green-grass turf, 
That wraps his breathless clay. 

Yet stay, fair lady : rest a while 
Beneath this eloyster wall: 

Sec through the hawthorn blows the cold 
wind, 

And drizzly rain doth fall. 







118 


FIRESIDE ENCYCLOPAEDIA OF POETRY. 


O stay me not, thou holy friar ; 

0 stay me not, I pray ; 

No drizzly rain that falls on me, 

Can wash my fault away. 

Yet stay, fair lady, turn again, 

And dry those pearly tears ; 

For see beneath this gown of gray 
Thy owne true-love appears. 

Here forced by grief and hopeless love, 
These holy weeds I sought: 

And here amid these lonely walls 
To end my days I thought. 

But haply, for my year of grace 
Is not yet pass’d away, 

Alight I still hope to win thy love, 

No longer would I stay. 

Now farewell grief, and welcome joy 
Once more unto my heart; 

For since I have found thee, lovely youth, 
We never more will part. 

Thomas Percy. 

Sonnet. 

To the Moon. 

With how sad steps, O Moon, thou climb’st 
the skies! 

How silently, and with how wan a face! 
What! may it be, that e’en in heav’nly 
place 

That busy archer his sharp arrows tries? 
Sure, if that long-with-love-acquainted 
eyes 

Can judge of love, thou feel’st a lover’s 
case; 

I read it in thy looks; thy languish’d 
grace 

fo me, that feel the like, thy state descries. 
Then, ev’n of fellowship, O Moon, tell 
me, 

Is constant love deem’d there but want of 
wit ? 

Are beauties there as proud as here they 
be? 

Do they above love to be loved, and yet 
Those lovers scorn, whom that love doth 
possess ? 

Do they call virtue there ungratefulness? 

Sir Philip Sidney. 


Jeanie Morrison. 

I’ve wander’d east, I’ve wander’d west. 
Through mony a weary way; 

But never, never can forget 
The luve o’ life’s young day ! 

The fire that’s blawn on Beltane e’en 
i May weel be black gin Yule; 

! But blacker fa’ awaits the heart 
Where first fond luve grows eule. 

Oh dear, dear Jeanie Morrison, 

The thochts o’ bygane years 
Still fling their shadows ower my path, 
And blind my een wi’ tears: 

They blind my een wi’ saut, saut tears, 
And sair and sick I pine, 

As memory idly summons up 
The blithe blinks o’ langsyne. 

’Twas then we luvit ilk ither weel, 

’Twas then we twa did part; 

Sweet time—sad time ! twa bairns at scule, 
Twa bairns, and but ae heart! 

’Twas then we sat on ae laigh bink, 

To leir ilk ither lear; 

And tones and looks and smiles were shed, 
Kemember’d evermair. 

I wonder, Jeanie, aften yet, 

When sitting on that bink, 

Cheek touchin’ cheek, loof lock’d in loof, 
What our wee heads could think. 

When baith bent doun ower ae braid page, 
Wi’ ae buik on our knee, 

Thy lips were on thy lesson, but 
My lesson was in thee. 

Oh, mind ye how we hung our heads, 

How cheeks brent red wi’ shame, 
Whene’er the scule-weans, laughin,’ said 
We cleek’d thegither harne? 

And mind ye o’ the Saturdays 
(The scule then skail’t at noon), 

When we ran off to speel the braes,— 

The broomy braes o’ June? 

• My head rins round and round about— 
My heart flows like a sea, 

! As ane by ane the thochts rush back 
O’ scule-time and o’ thee. 

Oh mornin’ life! oh mornin’ luve! 

Oh lichtsome days and king, 

When hiniiy’cl hopes around our hearts 
i Like simmer blossoms sprang! 









POEMS OF LOVE. 


119 


Oh, mind ye, luve, how aft we left 
The deavin’ dinsome toun, 

To wander by the green burnside, 

And hear : ts waters croon ? 

The simmer leaves hung ower our heads, 
The flowers burst round our feet, 

•Vnd in the gloamin’ o’ the wood 
The throssil whusslit sweet; 

The throssil whusslit in the wood, 

The burn sang to the trees— 

And we, with Nature’s heart in tune, 
Concerted harmonies; 

And on the knowe abune the burn 
For hours thegither sat 
In the silentness o’joy, till baith 
Wi’ very gladness grat. 

Ay, ay, dear Jeanie Morrison, 

Tears trinkled doun your cheek 
Like dew-beads on a rose, yet nane 
Had ony power to speak ! 

That was a time, a blessed time, 

When hearts were fresh and young, 
When freely gush’d all feelings forth, 
Unsyllabled—unsung! 

I marvel, Jeanie Morrison, 

Gin I hae been to thee 
As closely twined wi’ earliest thochts 
As ye hae been to me? 

Oh, tell me gin their music fills 
Thine ear as it does mine? 

Oh, say gin e’er your heart grows grit 
Wi’ dreamings o’ langsyne? 

I’ve wander’d east, I’ve wander’d west, 
I’ve borne a weary lot; 

But in my wanderings, far or near, 

Ye never were forgot. 

The fount that first burst frae this heart 
Still travels on its way ; 

And channels deeper, as it rins, 

The luve o’ life’s young day. 

O dear, dear Jeanie Morrison, 

Since we were sinder’d young 
I’ve never seen your face, nor heard 
The music o’ your tongue; 

But I could hug all wretchedness, 

And happy could I dee, 

Did I but ken your heart still dream’d 
O’ bygone days and me! 

William Mothkkwell. 


Sweet William's Farewell to 
Black-Eyed Susan. 

All in the Downs the fleet was moor’d. 
The streamers waving in the wind, 
When black-eyed Susan came aboard :— 

“ Oh ! where shall I my true-love find ? 
Tell me, ye jovial sailors ! tell me true 
If my sweet William sails among the crew.’ 

William, who high upon the yard 
Rock’d with the billow to and fro, 

Soon as her well-known voice he heard, 
He sigh’d, and cast his eyes below : 

The cord slides swiftly through his glow¬ 
ing hands, 

And quick as lightning on the deck he 
stands. 

So the sweet lark, high poised in air, 

Shuts close his pinions to his breast, 

If chance his mate’s shrill call he hear, 
And drops at once into her nest. 

The noblest captain in the British fleet 
Might envy William’s lip those kisses 
sweet. 

“ O Susan ! Susan ! lovely dear, 

My vows shall ever true remain ; 

Let me kiss off that falling tear ; 

We only part to meet again, 
j Change as ye list, ye winds! my heart 
shall be 

The faithful compass that still points to 
thee. 

“ Believe not what the landmen say 

Who tempt with doubts thy constant 
mind: 

They’ll tell thee, sailors, when away, 

In every port a mistress find : 

Yes, yes, believe them when they tell thee 
so, 

For thou art present wheresoe’er I go. 

“ If to far India’s coast we sail, 

) Thy eyes are seen in diamonds bright, 
Thy breath is Afric’s spicy gale, 

Thy skin is ivory, so white : 

Thus every beauteous object that I view 
Wakes in my soul some charm of lovely 
Sue. 

“ Though battle call me from thy arms, 

Let not my pretty Susan mourn ; 











120 


FIRESIDE ENCYCLOPAEDIA OF POETRY. 


Though cannons roar, yet sale from harms 
William shall to his dear return. 

Love turns aside the balls that round me 

Lest precious tears should drop from 
Susan’s eye.” 

The boatswain gave the dreadful word ; 

The sails their swelling bosom spread ; 

No longer must she stay aboard ; 

They kiss’d; she sigh’d; he hung his head, j 
Her lessening boat unwilling rows to land: 
“Adieu!” she cries; and waved her lily 


Highland Mary. 

Ye banks, and braes, and streams around 
The castle o’ Montgomery, 

Green be your woods, and fair your flowers, 
Your waters never drumlie ! 

There simmer first unfauld her robes, 

And there the langest tarry ; 

For there I took the last fareweel 
O’ my sweet Highland Mary. 

How sweetly bloom’d the gay green birk, 
How rich the hawthorn’s blossom, 

As, underneath their fragrant shade, 

1 clasp’d her to my bosom ! 

The golden hours, on angel wings, 

Flew o’er me and my dearie ; 

For dear to me as light and life 
Was my sweet Highland Mary ! 

Wi’ mony a vow, and lock’d embrace, 

Our parting was fu’ tender ; 

And, pledging aft to meet again, 

We tore oursels asunder ; 

But, oh, fell death’s untimely frost, 

That nipp’d my flower sae early ! 

Now green’s the sod and cauld’s the clay, 
That wraps my Highland Mary ! 

• >h, pale, pale now, those rosy lips 
1 aft ha’e kiss’d sae fondly ! 

And closed for aye the sparkling glance 
That dwalt on me sae kindly ! 

And mouldering now in silent dust, 

That heart that lo’ed me dearly ; 

But still within my bosom’s core 
(Shall live my Highland Alary ! 

Robert Burrs. 


Sally in our Alley. 

Of all the girls that are so smart, 
There’s none like pretty Sally'; 

She is the darling of my heart, 

And she lives in our alley. 

There is no lady in the land 
Is half so sweet as Sally ; 

She is the darling of my heart, 

And she lives in our alley. 

Her father he makes cabbage-nets, 

And through the streets does cry 'em 

Her mother she sells laces long 
To such as please to buy ’em : 

But sure such folks could ne’er beget 
So sweet a girl as Sally! 

She is the darling of my heart, 

And she lives in our alley. 

When she is by, I leave my work, 

I love her so sincerely; 

My master conies like any Turk, 

And bangs me most severely— 

But let him bang his bellyful, 

I’ll bear it all for Sally; 

She is the darling of my heart, 

And she lives in our alley. 

Of all the days that’s in the week 
I dearly love but one day— 

And that’s the day that comes betwixt 
A Saturday and Monday; 

For then I’m drest all in my best 
To walk abroad with Sally; 

She is the darling of my heart, 

And she lives in our alley. 

My master carries me to church, 

And often am I blamed 

Because I leave him in the lurch 
As soon as text is named ; 

I leave the church in sermon-time 
And slink away to Sally; 

She is the darling of my heart, 

And she lives in our alley. 

When Christmas comes about again, 
Oh then I shall have money ; 

I’ll hoard it up, and box it all, 

I’ll give it to my honey: 

I would it were ten thousand pound. 

I’d give it all to Sally; 

She is the darling of my heart, 

And she lives in our alley. 











POEMS OF LOVE. 


121 


My master and the neighbors all 
Make game of me and Sally, 

And, but for her, I’d better be 
A slave and row a galley, 

But when my seven long years are out, 
Oh then I’ll marry Sally,— 

Oh then we’ll wed, and then we’ll bed, 
But not in our alley. 

IIknry Carey. 


A Supplication. 

Awakk, awake, my Lyre! 

And tell thy silent master’s humble 
tale 

In sounds that may prevail; 

Sounds that gentle thoughts inspire: 
Though so exalted she 
And 1 so lowly be, 

Tell her, such different notes make all thy 
harmony. 

Hark ! how the strings awake: 

And, though the moving hand approach 
not near, 

Themselves with awful fear 
A kind of numerous trembling make. 

Now all thy forces try ; 

Now all thy charms apply; 

Revenge upon her ear the conquests of 
her eye. 

Weak Lyre! thy virtue sure 
Is useless here, since thou art only 
found 

To cure, but not to wound, 

And she to wound, but not to cure. 

Too weak too wilt thou prove 
My passion to remove ; 
rhysie to other ills, thou’rt nourishment 
to love. 

Sleep, sleep again, my Lyre! 

For thou canst never tell my humble 
tale 

In sounds that will prevail, 

Nor gentle thoughts in her inspire; 

All thy vain mirth lay by, 

Bid thy strings silent lie, 

Sleep, sleep again, my Lyre, and let thy 
master die. 

--K* 


WISHES FOP TIIE SUPPOSED 
MISTRESS. 

Whoe’eii she be, 

That not impossible she 

That shall command my heart and me : 

Where’er she lie, 

Lock’d up from mortal eye, 

In shady leaves of destiny : 

Till that ripe birth 
Of studied fate stand forth, 

And teach her fair steps to our earth : 

Till that divine 
Idea take a shrine 

Of crystal flesh, through which to shine* 

Meet von her, my Wishes, 

Bespeak her to my blisses, 

And be ye call’d my absent kisses. 

I wish her beauty 

That owes not all its duty 

To gaudy tire, or glist’ring shoe-tie : 

Something more than 
Taffata or tissue can, 

Or rampant feather, or rich fan. 

More than the spoil 
Of shop, or silkworm’s toil, 

Or a bought blush, or a set smile. 

A face, that’s best 

By its own beauty dress’d, 

And can alone command the rest. 

A face, made up 
Out of no other shop, 

Than what Nature’s white hand sets ope. 

A cheek, where youth 
And blood, with pen of truth, 

Write what the reader sweetly rueth. 

A cheek, where grows 
More than a morning rose, 

Which to no box his being owes. 

Lips, where, all day 
\ lover s kiss may play, 

Vet carry nothing thence away. 


Abraham ('t»wi.j:y, 












122 


FIRESIDE ENCYCLOPEDIA OF POETRY. 


Looks, that oppress 

Their richest tires, but dress 

And clothe their simplest nakedness. 

Eyes, that displace 

The neighboring diamond, and out-face 
That sunshine by their own sweet grace. 

Tresses, that wear 

Jewels, but to declare 

How much themselves more precious are. 

Whose native ray 

Can tame the wanton day 

Of gems that in their bright shades play. 

Each ruby there, 

Or pearl that dare appear, 

Be its own blush, be its own tear. 

A well-tamed heart, 

For whose more noble smart 
Love may be long choosing a dart. 

Eyes, that bestow 

Full quivers on love’s bow, 

Yet pay less arrows than they owe. 

Smiles, that can warm 
The blood, yet teach a charm, 

That chastity shall take no harm. 

Blushes, that bin 
The burnish of no sin, 

Nor flames of aught too hot within. 

******* 

Days, that need borrow 
No part of their good morrow 
From a fore-spent night of sorrow. 

Days, that in spite 

Of darkness, by the light 

Of a clear mind, are day all night. 

******* 

Life, that dares send 
A challenge to his end, 

And when it comes, say, “Welcome, 
friend!’’ 

Sydneian showers 

Of sweet discourse, whose powers 

Can crown old winter’s head with flowers, j 


I Soft silken hours, 

Open suns, shady bowers, 

’Bove all—nothing within that lowers. 

Whate’er delight 

Can make day’s forehead bright, 

Or give down to the wings of night. 

In her whole frame, 

Have Nature all the name, 

Art and ornament the shame. 

Her flattery, 

Picture and poesy, 

Her counsel her own virtue be. 

I wish her store 

Of worth may leave her poor 

Of wishes; and I wish—no more. 

Now, if Time knows 
That her, whose radiant brows 
j Weave them a garland of my vows; 

Her, whose just bays 
My future hopes can raise, 

A trophy to her present praise; 

Her, that dares be 

What these lines wish to see: 

I seek no further, it is she. 

******* 

Such worth as this is 
Shall fix my flying wishes, 

{ And determine them to kisses. 

Let her full glory, 

My fancies, fly before ye, 

Be ye my fictions but—her story. 

Richard Cbashaw. 


Song. 

How sweet I roamed from field to field. 

And tasted all the summer’s pride, 

Till I the Prince of Love beheld 
Who in the sunny beams did glide ! 

He showed me lilies for my hair, 

And blushing roses for my brow; 

He led me through his gardens fair 
Where all his golden pleasures grow. 

With sweet May-dews my wings were wet, 
And Phoebeus fired my vocal rage; 











POEMS OF LOVE. 


123 


He caught me in his silken net, 

And shut me in his golden cage. 

He loves to sit and hear me sing, 

Then, laughing, sports and plays with 
me; 

Then stretches out my golden wing, 

And mocks my loss of liberty. 

William Blake. j 


Shall I Tell you Whom I Love? 

Shall I tell you whom I love? 

Hearken then a while to me; 

And if such a woman move 
As I now shall versify, 

Be assured ’tis she, or none, 

That I love, and love alone. 

Nature did her so much right 
As she scorns the help of art. 

In as many virtues dight 

As e’er yet embraced a heart. 

So much good so truly tried, 

Some for less were deified. 

Wit she hath, without desire 
To make known how much she hath; 

And her anger flames no higher 
Than may fitly sweeten wrath. 

Full of pity as may be, 

Though perhaps not so to me. 

Reason masters every sense, 

And her virtues grace her birth ; 

Lovely as all excellence, 

Modest in her most of mirth. 

Likelihood enough to prove 

Only worth could kindle love. 

Such she is; and if you know 
Such a one as I have sung; 

Be she brown, or fair, or so 
That she be but somewhile young; 

Be assured ’tis she, or none, 

That I love, and love alone. 

William Browne. 


To Virgins, to make Much of 
Time. 

Gatheb ye rosebuds while ye may, 

Old Time is still a-flying, 

And this same flower that smiles to-day, 
To-morrow will be dying. 


The glorious lamp of heaven, the sun. 
The higher he’s a-getting 
The sooner will his race be run, 

And nearer lie’s to setting. 

That age is best which is the first, 
When youth and blood are warmer, 
But being spent, the worse, and worst 
Times still succeed the former. 

Then be not coy, but use your time, 
And while ye may, go marry; 

For having lost but once your prime. 
You may for ever tarry. 

Robert Herrick. 

- * 0 * - 

Rosaline. 

Like to the clear in highest sphere 
Where all imperial glory shines, 

Of selfsame color is her hair, 

Whether unfolded, or in twines; 

Heigh ho, fair Rosaline ! 

Her eyes are sapphires set in snow, 
Resembling heaven by every wink ; 

The gods do fear whenas they glow, 

And I do tremble when I think. 

Heigh ho, would she were mine 

Her cheeks are like the blushing cioud 
That beautifies Aurora’s face, 

Or like the silver crimson shroud 
i That Phoebus’ smiling looks doth grace; 
Heigh ho, fair Rosaline ! 

Her lips are like two budded roses 
Whom ranks of lilies neighbor nigh, 
Within which bounds she balm encloses 
Apt to entice a deity; 

Heigh ho, would she were mine! 

I Her neck is like a stately tower 
Where Love himself imprison’d lies, 

To watch for glances every hour 
From her divine and sacred eyes: 

Heigh ho, fair Rosaline! 

Her paps are centres of delight, 

Her breasts are orbs of heavenly frame. 
Where Nature moulds the dew of light 
| To feed perfection with the same; 

Heigh ho, would she were mine! 

With orient pearl, with ruby red, 
i With marble white, with sapphire him . 














FIRESIDE ENCYCLOPAEDIA OF POETRY. 


124 


Her body every way is fed, 

Yet soft in touch and sweet in view ; 

Ileigh ho, fair Rosaline! 

Nature herself her shape admires; 

The gods are wounded in her sight, 

And Love forsakes his heavenly fires 
And at her eyes his brand doth light; 
Heigh ho, would she were mine ! 

Then muse not, nymphs, though I be¬ 
moan 

The absence of fair Rosaline, 

Since for a fair there’s fairer none, 

Nor for her virtues so divine; 

Ileigh ho, fair Rosaline; 

Heigh ho, my heart! would God that she 
were mine! 

Tiiomas Lodge. 


To Althea, from Prison. 

When Love, with unconfined wings, 

11 overs within my gates, 

A nd my divine Althea brings 
To whisper at my grates ; 

When t lye tangled in her haire; 

And fetter’d, with her eye, 

The birds that wanton in the aire 
Know no such libertve. 

When flowing cups run swiftly round 
With no allaying Thames, 

Our carelesse heads with roses crown’d, 
Our hearts with loyal flames ; 

When thirsty griefe in wine we steepe, 
When healths and draughts goe free, 
Fishes, that tipple in the deepe, 

Know no such libertle. 

When, linnet-like, confined I 
With shriller note shall sing 
The mercye, sweetness, majestye, 

And glories of my king ; 

When I shall voyee aloud how good 
He is, how great should be, 

Th’ enlarged windes, that curie the flood, 
Know no such libertie. 

Stone walls doe not a prison make, 

Nor iron barres a cage, 

Mindes, innocent, and quiet, take 
That for an hermitage : 

If I have freedom in my love, 

And in my soule am free, 


Angels alone, that soare above, 

Enjoy such libertie. 

Richard Lovelace. 

Lines on Isabella Markham. 

Whence comes my love? O heart, dis 
close; 

It was from cheeks that shamed the rose, 
From lips that spoil the ruby’s praise, 

From eyes that mock the diamond’s blaze: 
Whence comes my woe? as freely own; 

Ah me ! ’twas from a heart like stone. 

The blushing cheek speaks modest mind, 
The lips befitting words most kind, 

The eye does tempt to love’s desire, 

And seems to say ’tis Cupid’s fire; 

Yet all so fair but speak my moan, 

Sith naught doth say the heart of stone. 

Why thus, my love, so kind bespeak 
Sweet eye, sweet lip, sweet blushing 
cheek— 

Yet not a heart to save my pain? > 

0 Venus, take thy gifts again! 

Make not so fair to cause our moan, 

Or make a heart that’s like our own. 

John Harrington 

Song. 

Follow a shadow, it still flies you ; 

Seem to fly it, it will pursue : 

So court a mistress, she denies you ; 

Let her alone, she will court you. 

Say, are not women truly, then, 

Styled but the shadows of us men ? 

At morn and even shades are longest; 

At noon they are or short or none ; 

So men at weakest they are strongest, 

But grant us perfect, they’re not known 
Say, are not women truly, then, 

Styled but the shadows of us men ? 

Ben Jov'son. 

-- 

To Lucasta, 

On Going to the Wars. 

Tell me not, sweet, I am unkinde, 

That from the nunnerie 
Of thy chaste breast and quiet minde, 
To warre and armes I flee. 













POEMS OF LOVE. 


True, a new mistresse now I cliase— 
The first foe in the field ; 

And with a stronger faith imbrace 
A sword, a horse, a shield. 

Yet this inconstancy is such 
As you, too, should adore ; 

I could not love thee, deare, so much, 
Loved I not honor more. 

Richard Lovelace. 


TO LUC AST A. 

If to be absent were to be 
Away from thee: 

Or that, when I am gone, 

You or I were alone ; 

Then, my Lucasta, might I crave 
Pity from blustering wind or swallowing 
wave. 

But I’ll not sigh one blast or gale 
To swell my sail, 

()r pay a tear to ’suage 
The foaming blue-god’s rage; 

For, whether he will let me pass 
Or no. I’m still as happy as I was. 

Though seas and lands be ’twixt us both, 
Our faith and troth, 

Like separated souls, 

All time and space controls : 

Above the highest sphere we meet, 

Unseen, unknown ; and greet as angels 
greet. 

So, then, we do anticipate 
Our after-fate, 

And are alive i’ tli’ skies, 

If thus our lips and eyes 
Can speak like spirits unconfined 
In heaven—their earthly bodies left be¬ 
hind. 

Richard Lovelace. ; 


The Welcome. 

Welcome, welcome, do I sing, 

Far more welcome than the spring ; 
He that parteth from you never, 
Shall enjoy a spring for ever. 


Need not walk abroad to hear 
The delightful nightingale. 

Welcome, welcome, then I sing, 

Far more welcome than the spring ; 
He that parteth from you never, 
Shall enjoy a spring for ever. 

Love, that still looks on your eyes, 
Though the winter have begun 
To benumb our arteries, 

Shall not want the summer’s sun. 
Welcome, welcome, then I sing, 

Far more welcome than the spring; 
He that parteth from you never, 
Shall enjoy a spring for ever. 

Love, that still may see your cheeks, 
Where all rareness still reposes, 

Is a fool if e’er he seeks 
Other lilies, other roses. 

Welcome, welcome, then I sing. 

Far more welcome than the spring; 
He that parteth from you never, 
Shall enjoy a spring for ever. 

Love, to whom your soft lip yields, 

And perceives your breath in kissing, 
All the odors of the fields 
Never, never shall be missing. 
Welcome, welcome, then I sing, 

Far more welcome than the spring ; 
He that parteth from you never, 
Shall enjoy a spring for ever. 

Love, that question would anew 
What fair Eden was of old, 

Let him rightly study you, 

And a brief of that behold. 

Welcome, welcome, then I sing, 

Far more welcome than the spring; 
He that parteth from you never, 
Shall enjoy a spring for ever. 

William Browne 


'TWAS WHEN THE SEAS WERE 

Roaring. 

’Twas when the seas were roaring 
With hollow blasts of wind ; 

A damsel lay deploring, 

All on a rock reclined, 

Wide o’er the roaring billows 
She cast a wistful look ; 


Love that to the voice is near, 
Breaking from your ivory pale, 










126 


FIRESIDE ENCYCLOPEDIA OF POETRY. 


Her head was crown’d with willows, 
That tremble o’er the brook. 

Twelve months are gone and over, 

And nine long, tedious days, 

Why didst thou, vent’rous lover, 

Why didst thou trust the seas? 
Cease, cease, thou cruel ocean, 

And let my lover rest: 

Ah ! what’s thy troubled motion 
To that within my breast? 

The merchant robb’d of pleasure, 

8ees tempests in despair; 

But what’s the'loss of treasure 
To losing of my dear? 

Should you some coast be laid on 
Where gold and diamonds grow, 
You’d find a richer maiden, 

But none that loves you so. 

How can they say that Nature 
Has nothing made in vain ; 

Why then beneath the water 
Should hideous rocks remain ? 

No eyes the rocks discover, 

That lurk beneath the deep, 

To wreck the wandering lover, 

And leave the maid to weep. 

All melancholy lying, 

Thus wail’d she for her dear ; 

Repaid each blast with sighing, 

Each billow with a tear ; 

When, o’er, the white wave stooping, 
His floating corpse she spied ; 

Then like a lily drooping, 

She bow’d her head and died. 

John Gay. 

Jean. 

Of a’ the airts the wind can blaw, 

I dearly like the West, 

For there the bonnie lassie lives, 

The lassie I lo’e best; 

There wild woods grow, and rivers row, 
And mony a hill between, 

But day and night my fancy’s flight 
Is ever wi’ my Jean. 

I see her in the dewy flowers, 

I see her sweet and fair, 

I hear her in the tunefu’ birds, 

I hear her charm the air ; 


There’s not a bonnie flower that springs 
By fountain, shaw, or green, 

There’s not a bonnie bird that sings 
But ’minds me o’ my Jean. 

Oh blaw ye westlin winds, blaw saft 
Amang the leafy trees ; 
j Wi’ gentle gale, frae muir and dale, 

Bring hame the laden bees; 

And bring the lassie back to me 
That’s aye sae neat and clean ; 

Ae blink o’ her wad banish care, 

Sae charming is my Jean. 

What sighs and vows amang the knowe.. 

Hae pass’d at ween us tvva ! 

How fain to meet, how wae to part 
That day she gaed awa! 

The Powers aboon can only ken, 

To whom the heart is seen, 

That nane can be sae dear to me 
As my sweet lovely Jean ! 

Robert Burns. 

The Grave of Love. 

I bug, beneath the cypress shade, 

What well might seem an elfin’s grave; 
And every pledge in earth I laid, 

That erst thy false affection gave. 

I pressed them down the sod beneath ; 

I placed one mossy stone above; 

And twined the rose’s fading wreath 
Around the sepulchre of love. 

Frail as thy love, the flowers were dead, 
Ere yet the evening sun was set: 

But years shall see the cypress spread, 
Immutable as my regret. 

Thomas Love Peacock. 

Song- 

Too late, alas! I must confess, 

You need not arts to move me; 

Such charms by nature you possess, 
’Twere madness not to love ye. 

Then spare a heart you may surprise, 
And give my tongue the glory 
To boast, though my unfaithful eyes 
Betray a tender story. 

John Wilmot (Earl of Rochester* 





Soxa. 


POEMS OF LOVE. 


127 


Dorinda’s sparkling wit and eyes, 

United, cast too fierce a light, 

Which blazes high, but quickly dies ; 

Pains not the heart, but hurts the sight. 

Love is a calmer, gentler joy; 

Smooth are his looks, and soft his pace; 

Her Cupid is a blackguard boy, 

That runs his link full in your face. 

Charles Sackville (Earl of Dorset). 

Song. 

Not, Celia, that I juster am 
Or better than the rest; 

For I would change each hour, like them, 
Were not my heart at rest. 

But I am tied to very thee 
By every thought I have; 

Thv face I only care to see, 

Thy heart I only crave. 

All that in woman is adored 
In thy dear self I find,— 

For the whole sex can but afford 
The handsome and the kind. 

Why then should I seek further store, 

And still make love anew? 

When change itself can give no more, 

’Tis easy to be true. 

Sir Charles Sedley. 

The Night Piece. 

To Julia. 

Her eyes the glow-worme lend thee, 

The shooting-starres attend thee; 

And the elves also, 

Whose little eyes glow 

Like the sparks of fire, befriend thee. 

No Will-o’-th’-wispe mislight thee, 

Nor snake nor slow-worm bite thee; 

But on thy way, 

Not making stay, 

Since ghost there’s none t’ affright thee ! 

Let not the darke thee cumber; 

What though the moon does slumber? 


The stars of the night 
Will lend thee their light, 

Like tapers cleare, without number. 

Then, Julia, let me woo thee, 

Thus, thus to come unto me; 

And when I shall meet 
Thy silvery feet, 

My soule I’le pour into thee! 

Robert Herrick. 

A Ditty. 

My true-love hath my heart, and I have 
his, 

By just exchange one to the other given: 
I hold his dear, and mine he cannot miss, 
There never was a better bargain driven : 
My true-love hath my heart, and I have 
his. 

His heart in me keeps him and me in one. 
My heart in him his thoughts and senses 
guides: 

He loves my heart, for once it was his own. 

I cherish his because in me it bides: 

My true-love hath my heart, and 1 have 
his. 

Sir Philip Sidney. 

Tiie Eve of St. Agnes. 

i. 

St. Agnes’ Eve —Ah, bitter chill it was ! 

The owl, for all his feathers, was a-cold ; 
The hare limp’d trembling through the 
frozen grass, 

And silent was the flock in woolly fold: 
Numb were the beadsman’s fingers while 
he told 

His rosary, and while his frosted breath, 
Like pious incense from a censer old, 
Seem’d taking flight for heaven without a 
death, 

Past the sweet virgin’s picture, while his 
prayer he saith. 

ii. 

His prayer he saith, this patient, holy man ; 
Then takes his lamp, and riseth from his 
knees, 

And back returneth, meagre,barefoot, wan, 
Along the chapel aisle by slow degrees: 






FIRESIDE ENCYCLOPEDIA OF POETRY. 


128 

The sculptured dead, on each side seem 
to freeze, 

Emprison’d in black, purgatorial rails: 

Knights, ladies, praying in dumb 
orat’ries, 

lie passeth by; and his weak spirit fails 
To think how they may ache in icy hoods 
and mails. 

ill. 

Northward heturneth through a little door, 

And scarce three steps, ere Music’s gold¬ 
en tongue 

Flatter’d to tears this aged man and poor; 

But no—already had his death-bell rung; 

The joys of all his life were said and sung: 
His was harsh penance on St. Agnes’ Eve; 

Another way he went, and soon among 
Rough ashes sat he for his soul’s reprieve, 
And all night kept awake, for sinners’ sake 
to grieve. 

IV. 

That ancient beadsman heard the prelude 
soft; 

And so it chanced, for many a door was 
wide, 

From hurry to and fro. Soon, up aloft, 

The silver, snarling trumpets ’gan to 
chide; 

The level chambers, ready with their 
pride, 

Were glowing to receive a thousand 
guests; 

The carved angels, ever eager-eyed, 
Stared, where upon their heads the cornice 
rests, 

With hair blown back, and wings put cross¬ 
wise on their breasts. 

v. 

At length burst in the argent revelry, 

With plume, tiara, and all rich array, 
Numerous as shadows haunting fairily 

The brain, new-stuff’d, in youth, with 
triumphs gay 

Of old romance. These let us wish away, 
And turn, sole-thoughted, to one lady there 

Whose heart had brooded, all that win¬ 
try day, 

On love, and wing’d St. Agnes’ saintly care, 
As she had heard old dames full many 
times declare. 


VI. 

They told her how, upon St. Agnes’ Eve, 
Young virgins might have visions of 
delight, 

And soft adorings from their loves receive 
Upon the honey’d middle of the night, 
If ceremonies due they did aright; 

As, supperless to bed they must retire, 
And couch supine their beauties, lily 
white; 

Nor look behind, nor sideways, but require 

Of heaven with upward eyes for all that 
they desire. 

VII. 

Full of this whim was thoughtful [Made¬ 
line ; 

The music, yearning like a god in pain, 

She scarcely heard; her maiden eyes di¬ 
vine, 

Fix’d on the floor, saw many a sweeping 
train 

Pass by—she heeded not at all; in vain 

Came many a tiptoe, amorous cavalier, 
And back retired; not cool’d by high 
disdain, 

But she saw not; her heart was other¬ 
where ; 

She sigh’d for Agnes’ dreams, (lie sweetest 
of the year. 

VIII. 

She danced along with vague,, regardless 
eyes, 

Anxious her lips, her breathing quick 
and short; 

The hallow’d hour was near at hand ; she 
sighs 

Amid the timbrels, and the throng’d re¬ 
sort 

Of whisperers in anger, or in sport; 

’Mid looks of love, defiance, hate and scorn, 
Hoodwink’d with fairy fancy; all amort, 

Save to St. Agnes and her lambs unshorn, 

And all the bliss to be before to-morrow 
morn. 

IX. 

So, purposing each moment to retire, 

She linger’d still. Meantime, across the 
moors, 

Had come young Porphyro, with heart on 
fire 

For Madeline. Beside the portal doors, 






POEMS OF LOVE. 


129 


Buttress’d from moonlight, stands he, 
and implores 

All saints to give him sight of Made¬ 
line, 

But for one moment in the tedious hours, 

That he might gaze and worship all un¬ 
seen ; 

Perchance speak, kneel, touch, kiss—in 
sooth such things have been. 

x. 

He ventures in: let no buzz’d whisper i 
tell: 

All eyes be muffled, or a hundred swords j 

Will storm his heart, Love’s feverous j 
citadel: 

For him, those chambers held barbarian 
hordes, 

Hyena foemen, and hot-blooded lords, 

Whose very dogs would execrations howl 

Against his lineage: not one breast 
affords 

Him any mercy, in that mansion foul, 

Save one old beldame, weak in body and 
in soul. 

xr. 

Ah,.happy chance! the agfed creature came, 

Shuffling along with ivory-headed wand, 

To where he stood, hid from the torch’s 
flame, 

Behind a broad hall-pillar, far beyond 

The sound of merriment and chorus 
bland: 

He startled her; but soon she knew his 
face, 

And grasp’d his fingers in her palsied j 
hand, 

Saying, “Mercy, Porphvro! hie thee from ' 
this place; 

They are all here to-night, the whole 
bloodthirsty race! 

XII. 

“ Get hence! get hence! there’s dwarfish 
Hildebrand; 

He had a fever late, and in the fit 

He cursed thee and thine, both house and 
land: 

Then there’s that old Lord Maurice, not 
a whit 

More tame for his gray hairs—Alas me! 
flit! 

9 


Flit like a ghost away!”—“Ah, gossip dear, 
We’re safe enough; here in this arm¬ 
chair sit, 

And tell me how ”—“ Good saints, not here, 
not here; 

Follow me, child, or else these stones will 
be thy bier.” 

XIII. 

He follow’d through a lowly arched way, 
Brushing the cobwebs with his lofty 
plume; 

And as she mutter’d" Well-a—well-a-day!’ 
He found him in a little moonlight room, 
Pale, latticed, chill, and silent as a tomb. 

“ Now tell me where is Madeline,” said he, 
“ Oh tell me, Angela, by the holy loom 

Which none but secret sisterhood may see, 

When they St. Agnes’ wool are weaving 
piously.” 

XIV. 

“ St. Agnes! Ah! it is St. Agnes’ Eve— 
Yet men will murder upon holy days: 

Thou must hold water in a witch’s sieve, 
And be liege-lord of all the elves and fays, 
To venture so. It fills me with amaze 

To see thee, Porphyro!—St. Agnes’ Eve! 
God’s help! my lady fair the conjurer 
plays 

This very night: good angels her deceive! 

But let me laugh a while, I’ve mickle time 
to grieve.” 

XV. 

Feebly she laugheth in the languid moon, 
While Porphyro upon her face doth look, 

Like puzzled urchin on an aged crone 
Who keepeth closed a wondrous riddle- 
book, 

As spectacled she sits in chimney-nook. 

But soon his eyes grew brilliant, when she 
told 

His lady’s purpose; and he scarce could 
brook 

Tears, at the thought of those enchant¬ 
ments cold, 

And Madeline asleep in lap of legends old. 

XVI. 

Sudden a thought came like a full-blown 
rose 

Flushing his brow, and in his painfcd 
heart 








180 


FIRESIDE ENCYCLOPAEDIA UE POETRY. 


Made purple riot: then doth he propose 

A stratagem, that makes the beldame 
start: 

“A cruel man and impious thou art! 

Sweet lady, let her pray, and sleep and 
dream 

Alone with her good angels, far apart 

From wicked men like thee. Go, go! I 
deem 

Thou canst not surely be the same that 
thou didst seem.” 

XVII. 

“ I will not harm her, by all saints I 
swear!” 

Quoth Porphyro. “Oh, may I ne’er find 
grace 

When my weak voice shall whisper its last 
prayer, 

If one of her soft ringlets I displace, j 

Or look with ruffian passion in her face: 

Good Angela, believe me by these tears; 

Or I will, even in a moment’s space, 

Awake with horrid shout my foemen’s ears, 

And beard them, though they be more 
fang’d than wolves and bears.” 

XVIII. 

“Ah, why wilt thou affright a feeble 
soul ? 

A poor, weak, palsy-stricken, church¬ 
yard thing, 

Whose passing-bell may ere the midnight 
toll; 

Whose prayers for thee, each morn and 
evening, 

Were never miss’d.” Thus plaining doth 
she bring 

A gentler speech from burning Porphyro; 

So woeful, and of such deep sorrowing, 

That Angela gives promise she will do 

Whatever he shall wish, betide her weal or 
woe. 

XIX. 

Which was, to lead him, in close secrecy, 

Even to Madeline’s chamber, and there 
hide 

Him in a closet, of such privacy 

That he might see her beauty unespied, 

And win perhaps that night a peerless 
bride, 


While legion’d fairies paced the coverlet, 
And pale enchantment held her sleepv- 
eyed. 

Never on such a night have lovers met, 

Since Merlin paid his demon all the mon¬ 
strous debt. 

xx. 

“ It shall be as thou wishest,” said the 
dame; 

“ All cates and dainties shall be stored 
there 

Quickly on this feast-night; by the tam¬ 
bour-frame 

Her own lute thou wilt see: no time to 
spare, 

For I am slow and feeble, and scarce 
dare 

On such a catering trust my dizzy head. 
Wait here, my child, with patience kneel 
in prayer 

The while : Ah! thou must needs the lady 
wed, 

Or may I never leave my grave among the 
dead.” 

XXI. 

So saying she hobbled off with busy fear. 
The lover’s endless minutes slowly pass’d; 

The dame return’d, and whisper’d in his ear 
To follow her; with agfed eves aghast 
From fright of dim espial. Safe at 
last, 

Through many a dusky gallery, they gain 
The maiden’s chamber, silken, hush’d 
and chaste; 

Where Porphyro took covert, pleased amain. 

His poor guide hurried back with agues 
in her brain. 

XXII. 

Her faltering hand upon the balustrade, 
Old Angela was feeling for the stair, 

When Madeline, St. Agnes’ charmed 
maid, 

Eose, like a mission’d spirit, unaware: 
With silver taper’s light, and pious 
care, 

She turn’d, and down the aged gossij) led 
To a safe level matting. Now prepare, 

Young Porphyro, for gazing on that bed; 

She comes, she comes again, like ring-d^ve 
fray’d and fled. 




POEMS OF LOVE. 


131 


XXIII. 

Out went the taper as she hurried in ; 

Its little smoke, in pallid moonshine, 
died: 

She closed the door, she panted, all akin 

To spirits of the air, and visions wide: 

No utter’d syllable, or, woe betide! 

But to her heart, her heart was voluble, 

Paining with eloquence her balmy 
side; 

As though a tongueless nightingale should 
swell 

Her throat in vain, and die, heart-stifled, in 
her dell. 

XXIV. 

A casement high and triple-arch’d there 
was, 

All garlanded with carven imageries 

Of fruits, and flowers, and bunches of knot¬ 
grass, 

And diamonded with panes of quaint 
device, 

Innumerable of stains and splendid i 
dyes, 

As are the tiger-moth’s deep-damask’d 
wings; 

And in the midst, ’mong thousand her¬ 
aldries, 

And twilight saints, and dim emblazon- , 
ings, 

A shielded scutcheon blush’d with blood 
of queens and kings. 

XXV. 

Full on this casement shone the wintry 
moon, 

And threw warm gules on Madeline’s fair 
breast, 

As down she knelt for Heaven’s grace and 
boon; 

Pose-bloom fell on her hands, together 
prest, 

And on her silver cross soft amethyst, 

And on her hair a glory, like a saint: 

She seem’d a splendid angel, newly 
drest, 

Save wings, for heaven. Porphyro grew 
faint : 

She knelt, so pure a thing, so free from 
mortal taint. 


XXVI. 

Anon his heart revives: her vespers done, 
Of all its wreathed pearls her hair she 
frees; 

Unclasps her warmfed jewels one by one; 
Loosens her fragrant bodice; by degrees 
Her rich attire creeps rustling to her 
knees: 

Half-hidden, like a mermaid in sea-weed, 
Pensive a while she dreams awake, and 
sees, 

In fancy, fair St. Agnes in her bed, 

But dares not look behind, or all the charm 
is fled. 

XXVII. 

Soon trembling in her soft and chilly nest, 
In sort of wakeful swoon, perplex’d she 
lay, 

Until the poppied warmth of sleep op¬ 
press’d 

Her soothed limbs, and soul fatigued 
away; 

Flown, like a thought, until the morrow- 
day; 

Blissfully haven’d both from joy and pain ; 
Clasp’d like a missal where swart Pav- 
nims pray; 

Blinded alike from sunshine and from 
rain, 

As though a rose should shut, and be a 
bud again. 

XXVIII. 

Stolen to this paradise, and so entranced, 
Porphyro gazed upon her empty dress, 

And listen’d to her breathing, if it chanced 
To wake into a slumberous tenderness; 
Which when he heard, that minute did 
he bless, 

And breathed himself: then from the closet 
crept, 

Noiseless as fear in a wide wilderness, 

And over the hush’d carpet, silent stept, 

And ’tween the curtains peep’d, where, lo 1 
—how fast she slept. 

XXIX. 

Then by the bed-side, where the faded 
moon 

Made a dim, silver twilight, soft he set 






132 


FIRESIDE ENCYCLOPAEDIA OF POETRY. 


A table, and, half anguish’d, threw thereon 
A cloth of woven crimson, gold, and jet:— 
Oh for some drowsy Morphean amulet! 
The boisterous, midnight, festive clarion, 
The kettle-drum, and far-heard clarionet, 
Affray his ears, though but in dying tone:— 
The hall-door shuts again, and all the 
noise is gone. 

XXX. 

And still she slept an azure-lidded sleep, 

In blanched linen, smooth, and laven- 
der’d; 

While he from forth the closet brought a 
heap 

Of candied apple, quince, and plum, and 
gourd; 

With jellies soother than the creamy 
curd, 

And lucent syrops, tinct with cinnamon ; 

Manna and dates, in argosy transferr’d 
From Fez; and spicfed dainties, every one, 
From silken Samarcand to cedar’d Leb¬ 
anon. 

XXXI. 

These delicates he heap’d with glowing 
hand 

On golden dishes and in baskets bright 
Of wreathfed silver. Sumptuous they stand 
In the retired quiet of the night, 

Filling the chilly room with perfume 
light.— 

“ And now, my love, my seraph fair, awake! 

Thou art my heaven, and I thine eremite; 
Open thine eyes, for meek St. Agnes’ sake, 
Or I shall drowse beside thee, so my soul 
doth ache.” 

XXXII. 

Thus whispering, his warm, unnerved arm 
Sank in her pillow. Shaded was her 
dream 

By the dusk curtains:—’twas a midnight 
charm 

Impossible to melt as icfed stream : 

The lustrous salvers in the moonlight 
gleam; 

Broad golden fringe upon the carpet lies; 

It seem’d he never, never could redeem 
From such a steadfast spell his lady’s eyes; 
So mused a while, entoil’d in wooffed 
phantasies. 


XXXIII. 

Awakening up, he took her hollow lute,— 

Tumultuous,—and, in chords that ten- 
derest be, 

He play’d an ancient ditty, long since 
mute, 

In Provence called “ La belle dame sans 
mercy:” 

Close to her ear touching the melody;— 

Wherewith disturb’d, she utter’d a soft 
moan: 

He ceased—she panted quick—and sud¬ 
denly 

Her blue affraykl eyes wide open shone: 

Upon his knees he sank, pale as smooth- 
sculptured stone. 

XXXIV. 

Her eyes were open, but she still beheld, 

Now wide awake, the vision of her sleep: 

There was a painful change, that nigh 
expell’d 

The blisses of her dream so pure and 
deep. 

At which fair Madeline began to weep, 

And moan forth witless words with many 
a sigh; 

While still her gaze on Porphyro would 
keep; 

Who knelt, with joined hands and piteous 
eye, 

Fearing to move or speak, she look’d so 
dreamingly. 

xxxv. 

“Ah, Porphyro!” said she, “but even now 

Thy voice was at sweet tremble in mine 
ear, 

Made tunable with every sweetest vow ; 

And those sad eyes were spiritual and 
clear: 

How changed thou art! how pallid, chill 
and drear! 

Give me that voice again, my Porphyro, 

Those looks immortal, those complain¬ 
ings dear! 

Oh leave me not in this eternal woe, 

For if thou diest, my love, I know not 
where to go.” 

XXXVI. 

Beyond a mortal man impassion’d far 

At these voluptuous accents, he arose, 






POEMS OF LOVE. 


133 


Ethereal, flush’d, and like a throbbing star 

Seen ’mid the sapphire heaven’s deep 
repose; 

Into her dream he melted, as the rose 

Blendeth its odor with the violet,— 

Solution sweet: meantime the frost-wind 
blows 

Like love’s alarum pattering the sharp 
sleet 

Against the window-panes; St. Agnes’ 
moon hath set. 

XXXVII. 

’Tis dark : quick pattereth the flaw-blown 
sleet: 

“ This is no dream, my bride, my Mad¬ 
eline !” 

’Tis dark: the iced gusts still rave and 
beat: 

“ No dream, alas! alas! and woe is mine! 

Porphyro will leave me here to fade and 
pine.— 

Cruel! what traitor could thee hither 
bring? 

I curse not, for my heart is lost in thine, 

Though thou forsakest a deceived thing;— 

A dove forlorn and lost, with sick, un- 
prunfed wing.” 

XXXVIII. 

“ My Madeline! sweet dreamer! lovely 
bride! 

Say, may I be for aye thy vassal blest ? 

Thy beauty’s shield, heart-shaped and 
vermeil-dyed ? 

Ah, silver shrine, here will I take my 
rest 

After so many hours of toil and quest, 

A famish’d pilgrim,—saved by miracle. 

Though I have found, I will not rob thy 
nest, 

Saving of thy SAveet self; if thou think’st 
well 

To trust, fair Madeline, to no rude infidel. 

XXXIX. 

“ Hark! ’tis an elfin storm from faery 
land, 

Of haggard seeming, but a boon in¬ 
deed : 

Arise—arise! the morning is at hand;— 

The bloated wassailers will never heed. 


Let us away, my love, with happy speed; 

There are no ears to hear, or eyes to see,— 

Drown’d all in Rhenish and the sleepy 
mead. 

Awake! arise! my love, and fearless be, 

For o’er the southern moors I have a home 
for thee.” 

XL. 

She hurried at his words, beset with fears, 

For there were sleeping dragons all 
around, 

At glaring watch, perhaps, with ready 
spears— 

Down the wide stairs a darkling way 
they found, 

In all the house was heard no human 
sound. 

A chain-droop’d lamp was flickering by 
each door; 

The arras, rich with horseman, hawk, 
and hound, 

Flutter’d in the besieging wind’s uproar ; 

And the long carpets rose along the gusty 
floor. 

XLI. 

They glide like phantoms into the wide hall! 

Like phantoms to the iron porch they 
glide, 

Where lay the porter, in uneasy sprawl, 

With a huge empty flagon by his side: 

The wakeful bloodhound rose, and shook 
his hide, 

But his sagacious eye an inmate owns : 

By one and one the bolts full easy slide: 

The chains lie silent on the footworn 
stones; 

The key turns, and the door upon its 
hinges groans. 

XLII. 

And they are gone: ay, ages long ago 

These lovers fled away into the storm. 

That night the baron dreamt of many a 
woe, 

And all his warrior-guests, with shade 
and form 

Of Avitch, and demon, and large coffin- 
AA'orm, 

Were long benightmared. Angela the old 

Died palsy-tAvitched, with meagre face 
deform; 




134 


FIRESIDE EE U YUL (JF/EJJIA UF POETRY. 


The beadsman, after thousand aves told, 
For aye unsought-for slept among his 
ashes cold. 

John Keats. 

Jock of Hazeldean. 

“Why weep ye by the tide, ladie? 

Why weep ye by the tide? 

I’ll wed ye to my youngest son, 

And ye sail be his bride; 

And ye sail be his bride, ladie, 

Sae comely to be seen;”— 

But aye she loot the tears down fa’ 

For Jock of Hazeldean. 

“ Now let this wilful grief be done, 

And dry that cheek so pale; 

Young Frank is chief of Errington, 

And lord of Langley-dale; 

His step is first in peaceful ha’, 

His sword in battle keen ;”— 

But aye she loot the tears down fa’ 

For Jock of Hazeldean. 

“ A chain of gold ye shall not lack, 

Nor braid to bind your hair, 

Nor mettled hound, nor managed hawk. 
Nor palfrey fresh and fair; 

A.nd you, the foremost o’ them a’, 

Shall ride our forest queen;”— 

But aye she loot the tears down fa’ 

For Jock of Hazeldean. 

The kirk was deck’d at morning tide, 

The tapers glimmer’d fair, 

The priest and bridegroom wait the bride, 
And dame and knight are there. 

They sought her baith by bower and ha’, 
The lady was not seen !— 

She’s o’er the Border, and awa’ 

Wi’ Jock of Hazeldean ! 

Sir Walter Scott. 

Sonnets from the Portuguese. 

If thou must love me, let it be for naught 
Except for love’s sake only. Do not say 
“ I love her for her smile, her look, her 
way 

Of speaking gently,—for a trick of thought 
That falls in well with mine, and certes 
brought 


A sense of pleasant ease on such a 
day—” 

For these things in themselves, beloved, 
may 

Be changed, or change for thee, — and 
love, so wrought, 

May be unwrought so. Neither love me 
for 

Thine own dear pity’s wiping my cheeks 
dry,— 

A creature might forget to weep, who 
bore 

Thy comfort long, and lose thy love 
thereby! 

But love me for love’s sake, that ever¬ 
more 

Thou mayst love on, through love’s 
eternity. 


I never gave a lock of hair away 

To a man, dearest, except this to thee, 

Which now upon my fingers thought¬ 
fully 

I ring out to the full brown length, and 
say, 

“ Take it.” My day of youth went yester¬ 
day: 

My hair no longer bounds to my foot’s 
glee, 

Nor plant I it from rose or myrtle tree, 

As girls do, any more : it only may 

Now shade on two pale cheeks the mark 
of tears, 

Taught drooping from the head that 
hangs aside 

Through sorrow’s trick. I thought the 
funeral shears 

Would take this first, but love is justi¬ 
fied,— 

Take it thou,—finding pure, from all those 
years, 

The kiss my mother left here when she 
died. 


Say over again, and yet once over again. 
That thou dost love me. Though the 
word repeated 

Should seem “ a cuckoo-song,” as thou 
dost treat it. 

Remember, never to the hill or plain, 







r'UJamo or JjO vr. 


cuckoo- When I look up, to drop ou a new range 
Of walls and floors—another home than 
this ? 


Valley and wood, without her 
strain, 

Comes the fresh Spring in all her green 
completed. 

Beloved, I, amid the darkness greeted 

By a doubtful spirit-voice, in that doubt’s 
pain 

Cry, “Speak once more—thou lovest!” 
Who can fear 

Too many stars, though each in heaven 
shall roll— 

Too many flowers, though each shall crown 
the year? 

Say thou dost love me, love me, love 
me—toll 

The silver iterance!—only minding, dear, 

To love me also in silence with thy soul. 


My letters! all dead paper, . . . mute and 
white! 

And yet they seem alive and quivering 

Against my tremulous hands which 
loose the string 

And let them drop down on my knee to¬ 
night. 

This said, ... he wish’d to have me in 
his sight 

Once, as a friend: this fix’d a day in 
spring 

To come and touch my hand ... a 
simple thing, 

Yet I wept for it! this, . . . the paper’s 
light, . . . 

Said, Dear , I love thee; and I sank and 
quail’d 

As if God’s future thunder’d on my past. 

This said, I am thine ,—and so its ink has 
paled 

With lying at my heart that beat too 
fast. 

And this . . . O Love, thy words have ill 
avail’d, 

If what this said, I dared repeat at last! 


If I leave all for thee, wilt thou exchange 
And be all to me? Shall I never miss 
Home-talk and blessing and the com¬ 
mon kiss 

That comes to each in turn, nor count it 
strange, 


Nay, wilt thou fill that place by me 
which is 

Fill’d by dead eyes too tender to know 
change ? 

That’s hardest. If to conquer love has tried, 

To conquer grief tries more, as all things 
prove; 

For grief indeed is love and grief beside. 

Alas, I have grieved so, I am hard to 
love. 

Yet love me—wilt thou? Open thine 
heart wide, 

And fold within the wet wings of thy dove. 


First time he kiss’d me, he but only kiss’d 

The fingers of this hand wherewith I 
write; 

And ever since, it grew more clean and 
white, 

Slow to world-greetings, quick with its 
“Oh, list,” 

When the angels speak. A ring of ame¬ 
thyst 

I could not wear here, plainer to my 
sight, 

Than that first kiss. The second pass’d 
in height 

The first, and sought the forehead, and 
half miss’d, 

Half falling on the hair. Oh, beyond 
meed! 

That was the chrism of love, which love’s 
own crown, 

With sanctifying sweetness, did precede. 

The third upon my lips was folded down 

In perfect, purple state; since when, in¬ 
deed, 

I have been proud, and said, “ My love, 
my own!” 


How do I love thee? Let me count the 
ways: 

I love thee to the depth and breadth 
and height 

My soul can reach, when feeling out of 
sight 

For the ends of being and ideal grace. 









136 


FIRESIDE ENCYCLOPAEDIA OF POETRY. 


I love thee to the level of every day’s 

Most quiet need, by sun and candlelight. 

I love thee freely, as men strive for right; 

I love thee purely, as they turn from praise. 

I love thee with the passion put to use 
In my old griefs, and with my child¬ 
hood’s faith. 

I love thee with a love I seem’d to lose 
With my lost saints. I love thee with 
the breath, 

Smiles, tears, of all my life; and, if God 
choose, 

I shall but love thee better after death. 

Elizabeth Barkett Browning. 

Lochinvar. 

Oh, young Lochinvar is come out of the 
West,— 

Through all the wide Border his steed was 
the best, 

And save his good broadsword he weapons 
had none,— 

He rode all unarm’d and he rode all 
alone. 

So faithful in love, and so dauntless in 
war, 

There never was knight like the young 
Lochinvar. 

He stay’d not for brake, and he stopp’d 
not for stone, 

He swam the Eske river where ford there 
was none, 

But ere he alighted at Netherby gate, 

The bride had consented, the gallant came 
late; 

For a laggard in love and a dastard in 
war 

Was to wed the fair Ellen of brave Loch¬ 
invar. 

So boldly he enter’d the Netherby hall, 

’Mong bridesmen and kinsmen and broth¬ 
ers and all. 

Then spoke the bride’s father, his hand on 
his sword 

(For the poor craven bridegroom said 
never a word), 

“ Oh, come ye in peace here, or come ye 
in war, 

Or to dance at our bridal, young Lord 
Lochinvar ?” 


“I long woo’d your daughter,—my suit 
you denied; 

Love swells like the Solway, but ebbs like 
its tide; 

And now am I come, with this lost love of 
mine 

To lead but one measure, drink one cup of 
wine. 

There are maidens in Scotland more love 
ly, by far, 

That would gladly be bride to the young 
Lochinvar.” 

The bride kiss’d the goblet, the knight 
took it up, 

He quaff’d off the wine and he threw 
down the cup. 

She look’d down to blush, and she look’d 
up to sigh, 

With a smile on her lips and a tear in her 
eye. 

He took her soft hand ere her mother 
could bar: 

“Now tread we a measure,” said young 
Lochinvar. 

So stately his form, and so lovely her 
face, 

That never a hall such a galliard did 
grace, 

While her mother did fret, and her father 
did fume, 

And the bridegroom stood dangling his 
bonnet and plume, 

And the bridemaidens whisper’d, “ ’Twere 
better by far 

To have match’d our fair cousin with 
young Lochinvar. ” 

One touch to her hand, and one word in 
her ear, 

When they reach’d the hall-door, and the 
charger stood near; 

So light to the croupe the fair lady he 
swung, 

So light to the saddle before her he 
sprung! 

“ She is won! we are gone, over bank, 
bush, and scaur; 

They’ll have fleet steeds that follow,” 
quoth young Lochinvar. 









POEMS OF LOVE. 


137 


There was mounting ’mong Graemes of the 
Netherbv clan; 

Forsters, Fenwicks, and Musgraves, they 
rode and they ran ; 

There was racing and chasing on Cannobie 
Lee, 

But the lost bride of Netherby ne’er did 
they see. 

So daring in love, and so dauntless in 
war, 

Have ye e’er heard of gallant like young 
Lochinvar? 

Sir Walter Scott. 


Auld Robin Gray. 

When the sheep are in the fauld, when 
the kye’s come hame, 

When a’ the weary war Id to rest are 
gane, 

The waes o’ my heart fa’ in showers frae 
my ee, 

UnKenn’d by my gudeman, wha sleeps 
sound by me. 

Young Jamie lo’ed me weel, and sought 
me for his bride ; 

But saving ae crown-piece, he had naething 
beside; 

To make the crown a pound, my Jamie 
gaed to sea; 

And the crown and the pound, — they 
were baith for me ! 

He hadna been gane a twelvemonth and 
a day, 

When my father brake his arm, and the 
cow was stown away ; 

My mither she fell sick—my Jamie was at 
sea— 

And Auld Robin Gray came a-courting 
me. 

My father cou’dna wark, my mother 
cou’dna spin; 

I toil’d day and night, but their bread I 
cou’dna win; 

Auld Robin maintain’d them baith, and, 
wi’ tears in his ee, 

Said, “ Jeanie, oh ! for their sakes, will ye 
no marry me ?” 


My heart it said na, and 1 look’d for Jamie 
back; 

But hard blew the winds, and his ship was 
a wrack: 

His ship was a wrack—Why didna Jamie 
dee? 

Or, why am I spared to cry, Wae is me ! 

My father urged me sail*—my mother didna 
speak, 

But she looked in my face till my heart 
was like to break; 

They gied him my hand—my heart was in 
the sea— 

And so Robin Gray he was gudeman t<> 
me. 

I hadna been his wife a week but only 
four, 

When mournfu’ as I sat on the stane at 
my door, 

I saw my Jamie’s ghaist, for I cou’dna 
think it he, 

Till he said, “ I’m come hame, love, to 
marry thee!” 

Oh sail', sail' did we greet, and mickle say 
of a’; 

I gied him ae kiss, and bade him gang 
awa’— 

I wish that I were dead, but I’m na like to 
dee; 

For, though my heart is broken, I’m but 
young, Wae is me ! 

I gang like a ghaist, and I carena much to 
spin; 

I darena think o’ Jamie, for that wad be 
a sin; 

But I’ll do my best a gude wife to be, 

For, oh! Robin Gray, he is kind to me. 

Lady Anne Barnard. 


To Mary in Heaven. 

Thou lingering star, with lessening ray, 
That lov’st to greet the early morn, 
Again thou usher’st in the day 
My Mary from my soul was torn. 

0 Mary ! dear departed shade ! 

Where is thy place of blissful rest ? 









■138 


El RESIDE ENVYUL UDjEDIA (Jb DUE I'D 1 . 


Seest thou thy lover lowly laid ? 

Hear’st thou the groans that rend his 
breast? 

That sacred hour can I forget, 

Can I forget the hallow’d grove, 

Where by the winding Ayr we met, 

To live one day of parting love? 

Eternity will not efface 
Those records dear of transports past; 
Thy image at our last embrace ; 

Ah ! little thought we ’twas our last! 

Ayr gurgling kiss’d his pebbled shore, 
O’erliung with wild woods, thickening, 
green, 

The fragrant birch, and hawthorn hoar, 
Twined amorous round the raptured 
scene. 


The flowers sprang wanton to be press’d, 
The birds sang love on every spray, 
Till too, too soon, the glowing west 
Proclaim’d the speed of wingfed day. 


Still o’er these scenes my memory wakes, 
And fondly broods with miser care ! 
Time but the impression deeper makes, 
As streams their channels deeper wear. 


My Mary, dear departed shade ! 

Where is thy blissful place of rest ? 
Seest thou thy lover lowly laid ? 

Hear’st thou the groans that rend his 
breast ? 


Robert Burns. 


The Lady's Yes. 

** Yes,” I answer’d you last, night; 

“ No,” this morning, sir, I say : 
Colors seen by candle-light 
Will not look the same by day. 

When the viols play’d their best, 
Lamps above and laughs below, 
Love vie sounded like a jest, 

Fit for yes or fit for no. 

Call me false or call me free, 

Vow, whatever light may shine,— 
No man on your face shall see 
Any grief for change on mine. 


Yet the sin is on us both ; 

Time to dance is not to woo; 

Wooing light makes fickle troth, 
Scorn of me recoils on you. 

Learn to win a lady’s faith 
Nobly, as the thing is high, 

Bravely, as for life and death, 

With a loyal gravity. 

Lead her from the festive boards, 
Point her to the starry skies; 

Guard her, by your truthful words 
Pure from courtship’s flatteries. 

By your truth she shall be true, 

Ever true, as wives of yore; 

And her yes, once said to you, 
Shall be Yes for evermore. 

Elizabeth Barrett Browning, 


Lady Clare. 

It was the time when lilies blow, 

And clouds are highest up in air, 

Lord Ronald brought a lily-white doe 
To give his cousin, Lady Clare. 

I trow they did not part in scorn : 

Lovers long betroth’d were they : 

They two will wed the morrow morn : 
God’s blessing on the day ! 

“ He does not love me for my birth, 

Nor for my lands so broad and fair; 

He loves me for my own true worth, 

And that is well,” said Lady Clare. 

In there came old Alice the nurse, 

Said, “ Who was this that went from 
thee ?” 

“ It was my cousin,” said Lady Clare, 

“ To-morrow he weds with me.” 

“ Oh, God be thank’d!” said Alice the nurse, 
“ That all comes round so just and fair: 
Lord Ronald is heir of all your lands, 

And you are not the Lady Clare.” 

“ Are ye out of your mind, my nurse, my 
nurse ?” 

Said Lady Clare, “ that ye speak so 
wild?” 

“ As God’s above,” said Alice the nurse, 

“ I speak the truth : you are my child. 










POEMS OF LOVE. 


180 


* The old earl’s daughter died at mv breast; 

I speak the truth, as I live by bread! 

I buried her like my own sweet child, 

And put my child in her stead.” 

“ Falsely, falsely have ye done, 

O mother,” she said, “ if this be true, 

To keep the best man under the sun 
So many years from his due.” 

Nay now, my child,” said Alice the nurse, 
“ But keep the secret for your life, 

And all you have will be Lord Ronald’s, 
When you are man and wife.” 

“ If I’m a beggar born,” she said, 

“ I will speak out, for I dare not lie. 
Pull off, pull off the brooch of gold, 

And fling the diamond necklace by.” 

“ Nay now, my child,” said Alice the nurse, 
“ But keep the secret all ye can.” 

She said, “ Not so : but I will know 
If there be any faith in man.” 

“ Nay now, what faith ?” said Alice the 
nurse, 

“ The man will cleave unto his right.” 

“ And he shall have it,” the lady replied, 

“ Though I should die to-night.” 

“ Yet give one kiss to your mother, dear! 

Alas, my child, I sinn’d for thee.” 

“ O mother, mother, mother,” she said, 

“ So strange it seems to me ! 

“ Yet here’s a kiss for my mother dear, 

My mother dear, if this be so, 

And lay your hand upon my head, 

And bless me, mother, ere I go.” 

She clad herself in a russet gown, 

She was no longer Lady Clare : 

She went by dale, and she went hy down, 
With a single rose in her hair. 

The lily-white doe Lord Ronald had 
brought 

Leapt up from where she lay, 

Dropp’d her head in the maiden’s hand, 
And follow’d her all the way. 

Down stepp’d Lord Ronald from his tower: 

“ O Lady Clare, you shame your worth! 
Why come you dress’d like a village maid, 
That are the flower of the earth ?” 


“ If I come dress’d like a village maid, 

I am but as my fortunes are: 

I am a beggar born,” she said, 

“ And not the Lady Clare.” 

“ Play me no tricks,” said Lord Ronald, 

“ For I am yours in word and in deed. 
Play me no tricks,” said Lord Ronald, 

“ Your riddle is hard to read.” 

Oh, and proudly stood she up ! 

Her heart within her did not fail: 

She look’d into Lord Ronald’s eyes, 

And told him all her nurse’s tale. 

He laugh’d a laugh of merry scorn : 

He turn’d and kiss’d her where she stood: 
“ If you are not the heiress born, 

And I,” said he, “ the next in blood— 

“ If you are not the heiress born, 

And I,” said he, “ the lawful heir, 

We two will wed to-morrow morn, 

And you shall still be Lady Clare.” 

Alfred Tennyson. 


Love not me for Comely 
Grace. 

Love not me for comely grace, 

For my pleasing eye or face, 

Nor for any outward part, 

No, nor for my constant heart,— 

For those may fail, or turn to ill, 

So thou and I shall sever: 

Keep therefore a true woman’s eye, 
And love me still, but know not why— 
So hast thou the same reason still 
To doat upon me ever ! 

Author Unknown. 


The Loveliness of Love. 

It is not beauty I demand, 

A crystal brow, the moon’s despair, 

Nor the snow’s daughter, a white hand, 
Nor mermaid’s yellow pride of hair: 

Tell me not of your starry eyes, 

Your lips that seem on roses fed, 

Your breasts, where Cupid tumbling lies, 
Nor sleeps for kissing of his bed :—- 







140 


FIRESIDE ENCYCLOPAEDIA OF POETRY\ 


A bloomy pair of vermeil cheeks 
Like Hebe’s in her ruddiest hours, 

A breath that softer music speaks 
Than summer winds a-wooing flowers, 

These are but gauds : nay what are lips ? 

Coral beneath the ocean stream, 

Whose brink when your adventurer slips 
Full oft he perisheth on them. 

And what are cheeks, but ensigns oft 
That wave hot youth to fields of blood ? 
Did Helen’s breast, though ne’er so soft, 
Do Greece or Ilium any good ? 

Eyes can with baleful ardor burn ; 

Poison can breath, that erst perfumed ; 
There’s many a white hand holds an urn 
With lovers’ hearts to dust consumed. 

For crystal brows there’s naught within ; 

They are but empty cells for pride ; 

He who the siren’s hair would win 
Is mostly strangled in the tide. 

Give me, instead of Beauty’s bust, 

A tender heart, a loyal mind 
Which with temptation I would trust, 

Yet never link’d with error find,— 

One in whose gentle bosom I 
Could pour my secret heart of woes, 
Like the care-burthen’d honey-fly 
That hides his murmurs in the rose,— 

My earthly Comforter ! whose love 
So indefeasible might be 
That, when my spirit wonn’d above, 

Hers could not stay, for sympathy. 

Georgf. Parley. 

Milk-31 a id's Song. 

The Shepherd to his Love. 

Come live with me, and be my love, 

And we will all the pleasures prove 
That valleys, groves, or bills, or field, 

Or woods and steepy mountains yield ; 

Where we will sit upon the rocks, 

And see the shepherds feed our flocks 
By shallow rivers, to whose falls 
Melodious birds sing madrigals. 


And I will make thee beds of roses, 

And then a thousand fragrant posies, 

A cap of flowers, and a kirtle 
Embroider’d all with leaves of myrtle; 

j A gown made of the finest wool 
Which from our pretty lambs we pull; 
j Slippers lined choicely for the cold, 

With buckles of the purest gold ; 

A belt of straw and ivy buds, 
j With coral clasps and amber studs ; 

And if these pleasures may thee move. 
Come live with me, and be my love. 

Thy silver dishes for my meat, 

1 As precious as the gods do eat, 

Shall, on an ivory table, be 
I Prepared each day for thee and me. 

The shepherd swains shall dance and sing 
For thy delight, each May morning. 

If these delights thy mind may move, 
Then live with me and be my love. 

Christopher Marlowe. 

MILK-MAID’S MOTHER'S ANSWER. 
The Nymph’s Keply. 

If all the world and love were young, 
And truth in every shepherd’s tongue, 
These pretty pleasures might me move 
To live with thee and be thy love. 

But time drives flocks from field to fold, 
When rivers rage and rocks grow cold ; 
Then Philomel becometh dumb, 

And age complains of care to come. 

The flowers do fade, and wanton fields 
To wayward winter reckoning yields. 

A honey tongue, a heart of gall, 

Is fancy’s spring, but sorrow’s fall. 

Thy gowns, thy shoes, thy beds of roses, 
Thy cap, thy kirtle, and thy posies, 

Soon break, soon wither, soon forgotten: 
In folly ripe, in reason rotten. 

Thy belt of straw and ivy buds, 

Thy coral clasps and amber studs, 

All these in me no means can move 
To come to thee, and be thy love. 






POEMS OF LOVE. 


1-41 


What should we talk of dainties, then, 

Of better meat than’s fit for men ? 

These are but vain : that’s only good 
Which God hath bless’d, and sent for 
food. 

But could youth last and love still breed, 
Had joys no date, nor age no need, 

Then those delights my mind might move 
To live with thee, and be thy love. 

Sir Walter Raleigh. 


On a Day , Alack the Day / 

On a day, alack the day ! 

Love, whose month is ever May, 

Spied a blossom passing fair 
Playing in the wanton air: 

Through the velvet leaves the wind 
All unseen ’gan passage find ; 

That the lover, sick to death, 

Wish’d himself the heaven’s breath. 
Air, quoth he, thy cheeks may blow ; 
Air, would I might triumph so! 

But, alack, my hand is sworn 
Ne’er to pluck thee from thy thorn : 
Vow, alack, for youth unmeet; 

Youth so apt to pluck a sweet. 

Do not call it sin in me 
That I am forsworn for thee: 

Thou for whom e’en Jove would swear 
Juno but an Ethiope were, 

And deny himself for Jove, 

Turning mortal for thy love. 

William Shakespeare. 


Woman’s Inconstancy. 

f loved thee once, I’ll love no more, 
Thine be the grief as is the blame; 
Thou art not what thou wast before, 

What reason I should be the same? 

He that can love unloved again, 

Hath better store of love than brain : 
God send me love my debts to pay, 
While unthrifts fool their love away. 

Nothing could have my love o’erthrown, 
If thou hadst still continued mine; 
Yea, if thou hadst remain’d thy own, 

I might perchance have yet been thine. 


But thou thy freedom did recall, 

That if thou might elsewhere inthrall; 
And then how could I but disdain 
A captive’s captive to remain? 

When new desires had conquer’d thee, 

And changed the object of thy will, 

It had been lethargy in me, 

Not constancy, to love thee still. 

Yea, it had been a sin to go 
And prostitute affection so, 

Since we are taught no prayers to say 
To such as must to others pray. 

Yet do thou glory in thy choice, 

Thy choice of his good fortune boast; 
I’ll neither grieve nor yet rejoice, 

To see him gain what I have lost; 

The height of my disdain shall be, 

To laugh at him, to blush for thee; 

To love thee still, but go no more 
A begging to a beggar’s door. 

Sir Robert Ayton. 

The Maid’s Lament. 

I loved him not; and yet now he is 
gone, 

I feel I am alone. 

I checkt him while he spoke; yet could 
he speak, 

Alas! I would not check. 

For reasons not to love him once I 
sought, 

And wearied all my thought 
To vex myself and him : I now would give 
My love, could he but live 
Who lately lived for me, and when he 
found 

’Twas vain, in holy ground 
He hid his face amid the shades of death! 

I waste for him my breath 
Who wasted his for me; but mine returns 
And this lone bosom burns 
With stifling heat, heaving it up in sleep, 
And waking me to weep 
Tears that had melted his soft heart: for 
years 

Wept he as bitter tears ! 

“Merciful God!” such was his latest prayer 
“ These may she never share!” 
Quieter is his breath, his breast more cold 
Than daisies in the mould. 








X1KKS1VE END Y CL OF All)! A OF POETRY. 


HZ 


Where children spell athwart the church¬ 
yard gate 

His name and life’s brief date. 

Pray for him, gentle souls, whoe’er ye be, 
And oh, pray, too, for me! 

Walter Savage Landor. 


An Ode. 

The merchant, to secure his treasure, 
Conveys it in a borrow’d name: 
Euphelia serves to grace my measure 
But Chloe is my real flame. 

My softest verse, my darling lyre 
Upon Euphelia’s toilet lay; 

When Chloe noted her desire, 

That I should sing, that I should play, 

My lyre I tune, my voice I raise ; 

But with my numbers mix my sighs; 
And while I sing Euphelia’s praise, 

I fix my soul on Cliloe’s eyes. 

Fair Chloe blush’d, Euphelia frown’d : 

I sung, and gazed: I play’d and trembled: 
And Venus to the Loves around 
Remark’d how ill we all dissembled. 

Matthew Prior. 

Constancy. 

Out upon it, I have loved 
Three whole days together; 

And am like to love three more 
If it prove fine weather. 

Time shall moult away his wings, 

Ere he shall discover 
In the whole wide world again 
Such a constant lover. 

But the spite on’t is, no praise 
Is due at all to me; 

Love with me had made no stays 
Had it any been but she. 

Had it any been but she, 

And that very face, 

There had been at least ere this, 

A dozen in her place. 

Sir .John Suckling. 

A Fragment. 

Love in her sunny eyes does basking play; 
Love walks the pleasant mazes of her 
hair; 


Love does on both her lips for ever stray, 

And sows and reaps a thousand kisses 
there: 

In all her outward parts Love’s always seen; 

But oh ! he never went within. 

Abraham Cowley. 

To a Dead Woman. 

Not a kiss in life; but one kiss at life’s 
end, 

I have set on the face of Death in trust 
for thee, 

Through long years, keep it fresh on thy 
lips, O friend! 

At the gate of silence, give it back to me. 

Henry C. Bunner. 

Lovely Mary Donnelly. 

O lovely Mary Donnelly, it’s you T love 
the best! 

If fifty girls were around you, I’d hardly see 
the rest; 

Be what it may the time of day, the place 
be where it will, 

Sweet looks of Mary Donnelly, they bloom 
before me still. 

Her eyes like mountain water that’s flow¬ 
ing on a rock, 

How clear they are, how dark they are! 
and they give me many a shock ; 

Red rowans warm in sunshine, and wetted 
with a shower, 

Could ne’er express the charming lip that 
has me in its power. 

Her nose is straight and handsome, her 
eyebrows lifted up, 

Her chin is very neat and pert, and smooth 
like a china cup ; 

Her hair’s the brag of Ireland, so weighty 
and so fine— 

It’s rolling down upon her neck, and gath¬ 
er’d in a twine. 

The dance o’ last Whit Monday night ex¬ 
ceeded all before— 

No pretty girl for miles around was missing 
from the floor; 

But Mary kept the belt of love, and oh! but 
she was gay; 

She danced a jig, she sung a song, and took 
my heart away! 






POEMS OF LOVE. 


14 : 


When she stood uj:> for dancing, her steps 
were so complete, 

The music nearly kill’d itself, to listen to 
her feet; 

The fiddler mourn’d his blindness, he 
heard her so much praised; 

But bless’d himself he wasn’t deaf when 
once her voice she raised. 

And evermore I’m whistling or lilting what 
you sung; 

Your smile is always in my heart, your 
name beside my tongue. 

But you’ve as many sweethearts as you’d 
count on both your hands, 

And for myself there’s not a thumb or 
little finger stands. 

Oh, you’re the flower of womankind, in 
country or in town ; 

The higher I exalt you, the lower I’m cast 
down. 

If some great lord should come this way 
and see your beauty bright, 

And you to be his lady, I’d own it was but 
right. 

Oh, might we live together in lofty palace 
hall 

Where joyful music rises, and where scar¬ 
let curtains fall! 

Oh, might we live together in a cottage 
mean and small, 

With sods of grass the only roof, and mud 
the only wall! 

O lovely Mary Donnelly, your beauty’s my 
distress— 

It’s far too beauteous to be mine, but I’ll 
never wish it less; 

The proudest place would fit your face, and 
I am poor and low, 

But blessings be about you, dear, wherever 
you may go! 

William Allingham. 

ANNABEL LEE. 

It was many and many a year ago, 

In a kingdom by the sea, 

That a maiden there lived, whom you may 
know 

By the name of Annabel Lee ; 


And this maiden she lived with no other 
thought 

Than to love, and be loved by me. 

I was a child and she was a child, 

In this kingdom by the sea; 

But we loved with a love that was more 
than love, 

I and my Annabel Lee— 

With a love that the winged seraphs of 
heaven 

Coveted her and me. 

And this was the reason that, long ago, 

In this kingdom by the sea, 

A wind blew out of a cloud, chilling 
My beautiful Annabel Lee; 

So that her high-born kinsman came 
And bore her away from me, 

To shut her up in a sepulchre 
In this kingdom by the sea. 

The angels, not half so happy in heaven, 
Went envying her and me, 

Yes! that was the reason (as all men 
know, 

In this kingdom by the sea) 

That the wind came out of the cloud by 
night, 

Chilling and killing my Annabel Lee. 

But our love it was stronger by far than 
the love 

Of those who were older than we, 

Of many far wiser than we; 

And neither the angels in heaven above, 
Nor the demons down under the sea, 

Can ever dissever my soul from the soul 
Of the beautiful Annabel Lee. 

For the moon never beams without bring¬ 
ing me dreams 

Of the beautiful Annabel Lee, 

And the stars never rise, but I feel the 
bright eyes 

Of the beautiful Annabel Lee; 

And so, all the night-tide, I lie down by 
the side 

Of my darling—my darling—my life and 
my bride, 

In the sepulchre there by the sea, 

In her tomb by the sounding sea. 

Edgar Allan Poe. 





FIRESIDE ENCYCLOPAEDIA OF POETRY. 


14*4 


Earl Mertoun’S Song in “.4 Blot 
in the 'Scutcheon." 

There’s a woman like a dew-drop, she’s so 
purer than the purest; 

And her noble heart’s the noblest, yes, and 
her sure faith’s the surest: 

And her eyes are dark and humid, like the 
depth on depth of lustre 
Hid i’ the harebell, while her tresses, sun¬ 
nier than the wild-grape cluster, 

Gush in golden-tinted plenty down her 
neck’s rose-misted marble: 

Then her voice’s music . . call it the well’s 
bubbling, the birds warble! 

And this woman says, “ My days were sun¬ 
less and my nights were moonless, 
Parched the pleasant April herbage, and 
the lark’s heart’s outbrake tuneless, 

If you loved me not!” And I who—(ah, 
for words of flame!) adore her, 

Who am mad to lay my spirit prostrate 
palpably before her— 

I may enter at her portal soon, as now her 
lattice takes me, 

And by noontide as by midnight make her 
mine, as hers she makes me! 

Robert Browning. 


Duncan Gray. 

Duncan Gray cam here to woo, 

Ha, ha, the wooing o’t, 

On blythe Yule night when we were fou, 
Ha, ha, the wooing o’t: 

Maggie coost her head fu’ high, 

Look’d asklent and unco’ skeigh, 

Gart poor Duncan stand abeigh ; 

Ha, ha, the wooing o’t! 

Duncan fleecli’d, and Duncan pray’d, 

Ha, lia, the wooing o’t; 

Meg was deaf as Ailsa Craig; 

Ha, ha, the wooing o’t. 

Duncan sigh’d baith out and in, 

Grat his een baith bleert an’ blin’, 

Spak o’ lowpin o’er a linn; 

Ha, ha, the wooing o’t. 

Time and chance are but a tide, 

Ha, ha, the wooing o’t; 


Slighted love is sair to bide, 

Ha, ha, the wooing o’t. 

Shall T, like a fool, quoth he, 

For a haughty liizzie dee? 

She may gae to—France for me! 

Ha, ha, the wooing o’t. 

How it comes let doctors tell, 

Ha, ha, the wooing o’t; 

Meg grew sick—as he grew heal, 

Ha, ha, the wooing o’t. 

Something in her bosom wrings, 

For relief a sigh she brings; 

And oh, her een, they spak sic things. 
Ha, ha, the wooing o’t. 

Duncan was a lad o’ grace, 

Ha, ha, the wooing o’t; 

Maggie’s was a piteous case, 

Ha, ha, the wooing o’t. 

Duncan couldna be her death, 
Swelling pity smoor’d his wrath; 

Now they’re crouse and canty baith, 
Ha, ha, the wooing o’t. 

Robert Burns. 


Ruth. 

She stood breast-high amid the corn, 
Clasp’d by the golden light of morn, 
Like the sweetheart of the sun, 

Who many a glowing kiss had won. 

On her cheek an autumn flush 
Deeply ripen’d ;—such a blush 
In the midst of brown was born, 

Like red poppies grown with corn. 

Pound her eves her tresses fell, 

Which were blackest none could tell. 
But long lashes veil’d a light, 

That had else been all too bright. 

And her hat, with shady brim, 

Made her tressy forehead dim ; 

Thus she stood amid the stooks, 
Praising God with sweetest looks . 

Sure, I said, heav’n did not mean, 
Where I reap thou sliouldst but glean, 
Lay thy sheaf adown and come, 

Share my harvest and my home. 

Thomas Hood. 






POEMS OF LOVE. 


145 


Phillida and Corydon. 

In the merrie moneth of Maye, 

In a morne by break of daye, 

With a troope of damselles playing 
Forthe “I yode” forsooth a-maying: 

When anon by a wood side, 

Where as Maye was in his pride, 

I espied all alone 
Phillida and Corydon. 

Much adoe there was, god wot; 

He wold love, and she wold not. 

She sayde, never man was trewe ; 

He sayes, none was false to you. 

He sayde, hee had lovde her longe : 
She sayes, love should have no wronge. 
Corydon wold kisse her then : 

She sayes, maydes must kisse no men, 

Tyll they doe for good and all. 

When she made the shepperde call 
All the heavens to wytnes truthe, 
Never loved a truer youthe. 

Then with manie a prettie othe, 

Yea and nay, and faith and trothe; 
Suche as seelie shepperdes use 
When they will not love abuse; 

Love, that had bene long deluded, 

Was with kisses sweete concluded ; 
And Phillida with garlands gaye 
Was made the lady of the Maye. 

Nicholas Breton. 

Maid of Athens. 

Maid of Athens, ere we part, 

Give, oh, give me back my heart! 

Or, since that has left my breast, 

Keep it now, and take the rest! 

Hear my vow before I go, 

Z(bri / iod , <rdq dyar.S). 

By those tresses unconfined, 

Woo’d by each iEgean wind ; 

By those lids whose jetty fringe 
Kiss thy soft cheeks’ blooming tinge, 
By those wild eyes like the roe, 

Zu>rj gob, adz dyaTtoj, 

By that lip I long to taste ; 

By that zone-encircled waist; 

10 


By all the token-flowers that tell 
What words can never speak so well; 

Bv love’s alternate joy and woe, 

Z(di y gob, adz dyaizu’>. 

Maid of Athens ! I am gone : 

Think of me, sweet! when alone.— 
Though I fly to Istambol, 

Athens holds my heart and soul : 

Can I cease to love thee ? No! 

Zutrj gob, adz dyar.u). 

Lord Byron. 

Adelgitha. 

The Ordeal’s fatal trumpet sounded, 

And sad, pale Adelgitha came, 

When forth a valiant champion bounded, 
And slew the slanderer of her fame. 

She wept, deliver’d from her danger ; 

But when he knelt to claim her glove— 
“ Seek not,” she cried, “ O gallant 
stranger, 

For hapless Adelgitha’s love. 

“ For he is in a foreign far land 
Whose arm should now have set me 
free; 

And I must wear the willow garland 
For him that’s dead, or false to me.” 

“ Nay! say not that his faith is tainted !”- 
He raised his visor,—at the sight 
She fell into his arms and fainted ; 

It was indeed her own true knight. 

Thomas Campbell, 

BONNIE LESLEY. 

Oh saw ye bonnie Lesley 
As she gaed o’er the border? 

She’s gane, like Alexander, 

To spread her conquests farther. 

To see her is to love her, 

And love but her for ever; 

For Nature made her what she is, 

And never made anither. 

Thou art a queen, fair Lesley— 

Thy subjects we, before thee; 

Thou art divine, fair Lesley— 

The hearts o’ men adore thee. 





140 


FIRESIDE ENCYCLOPAEDIA OF POETRY. 


The deil he could na scaith thee, 

Or aught that wad belang thee; 
He’d look into thy bonnie face, 

And say, “I canna wrang thee.” 

The powers aboon will tent thee; 

Misfortune sha’na steer thee; 
Thou’rt like themsel’ sae lovely, 
That ill they’ll ne’er let near thee. 

Return again, fair Lesley ! 

Return to Caledonie! 

That we may brag we hae a lass 
There’s nane again sae bonnie. 

Robert Burns. 

A Match. 

If love were what the rose is, 

And I were like the leaf, 

Our lives would grow together 
In sad or singing weather, 

Blown fields or flowerful closes, 
Green pleasure or gray grief; 

If love were what the rose is, 

And I were like the leaf. 

If I were what the words are, 

And love were like the tune, 

With double sound and single 
Delight our lips would mingle, 

With kisses glad as birds are 
That get sweet rain at noon; 

If I were what the words are, 

And love were like the tune. 

If you were life, my darling, 

And I your love were death, 

We’d shine and snow together 
Ere March made sweet the weather 
With daffodil and starling 
And hours of fruitful breath ; 

If you were life, my darling, 

And I, your love, were death. 

If you were thrall to sorrow, 

And I were page to joy, 

We’d play for lives and seasons, 
With loving looks and treasons, 

And tears of night and morrow 
And laughs of maid and boy ; 

If you were thrall to sorrow. 

And I were page to joy. 


If you were April’s lady, 

And I were lord in May, 

We’d throw with leaves for hours 
And draw for days with flowers, 

Till day like night were shady 
And night were bright like day; 

If you were April’s lady, 

And I were lord in May. 

If you were queen of pleasure, 

And I were king of pain, 

We’d hunt down love together, 

Pluck out his flying-feather, 

And teach his feet a measure, 

And find his mouth a rein; 

I you were queen of pleasure, 

And I were king of pain. 

Algernon Charles Swinburne. 

Light. 

The night has a thousand eyes, 

And the day but one; 

Yet the light of the bright world dies, 
With the dying sun. 

The mind has a thousand eyes, 

And the heart but one; 

Yet the light of a whole life dies, 
When love is done. 

Francis W. Bocrdillon. 

I LOVE MY LOVE. 

What is the meaning of the song 
That rings so clear and loud, 

Thou nightingale amid the copse, 

Thou lark above the cloud ? 

What says thy song, thou joyous thrush, 
Up in the walnut tree? ' 

“ I love my Love, because I know 
My Love loves me.” 

What is the meaning of thy thought, 

O maiden fair and young? 

There is such pleasure in thine eves. 
Such music on thy tongue; 

There is such glory on thy face, 

What can the meaning be? 

“ I love my Love, because I know 
My Love loves me.” 

Oh happy words! at Beauty’s feet 
We sing them ere our prime, 

And when the early summers pass, 

And Care comes on with Time, 






POEMS OF LOVE. 


147 


Still be it ours, in Care’s despite, 

To join the chorus free: 

“ I love my Love, because I know 
My Love loves me.” 

Charles Mackay. 

Come, Rest ix this Bosom. 

Come, rest in this bosom, my own stricken 
deer, 

Though the herd have fled from thee, thy 
home is still here; 

Here still is the smile that no cloud can 
o’ercast, 

And a heart and a hand all thy own to the 
last. 

Oh, what was love made for, if ’tis not the 
same 

Through joy and through torment, through 
glory and shame ? 

I know not, I ask not, if guilt’s in that 
heart, 

1 but know that I love thee, whatever thou 
art. 

Thou hast call’d me thy angel in moments 
of bliss, 

And thy angel I’ll be ’mid the horrors of 
this, 

Through the furnace, unshrinking, thy 
steps to pursue, 

And shield thee, and save thee;—or per¬ 
ish there too! 

Thomas Mooee. 

The Siller Croux. 

“ And ye sail walk in silk attire, 

And siller hae to spare, 

Gin ye’ll consent to be his bride, 

Nor think o’ Donald mair.” 

Oh wha wad buy a silken goun 
Wi’ a puir broken heart? 

Or what’s to me a siller croun 
Gin frae my love I part ? 

The mind, whose meanest wish is pure, 
Far dearest is to me, 

A.nd ere I’m forced to break my faith, 

I’ll lay me doun an’ dee. 

For I hae vow’d a virgin’s vow 
My lover’s fate to share, 


An’ he has gi’en to me his heart, 

And what can man do mair? 

His mind and manners won my heart : 

He gratefu’ took the gift; 

And did I wish to seek it back, 

It wad be waur than theft. 

The langest life can ne’er repay 
The love he bears to me, 

And ere I'm forced to break my faith, 
I’ll lay me doun an’ dee. 

Scsan.va Blamire. 

Mary Moris ox. 

O Mary, at thy window be ! 

It is the wish’d, the trysted hour ! 

Those smiles and glances let me see 
That make the miser’s treasure poor: 
How blithely wad I bide the stoure, 

A weary slave frae sun to sun, 

Could I the rich reward secure, 

The lovely Alary Morison ! 

Yestreen’ when to the trembling string 
The dance gaed through the lighted ha’, 
To thee my fancy took its wing,— 

I sat, but neither heard nor saw : 
Though this was fair, and that was braw, 
And yon the toast of a’ the town, 

I sigh’d, and said amang them a’, 

“ Ye are na Mary Morison.” 

0 Mary, canst thou wreck his peace 
Wha for thy sake wad gladly dee ? 

Or canst thou break that heart of his, 
Whase only faut is loving thee? 

If love for love thou wilt na gie, 

At least be pity to me shown ; 

A thought ungentle cauna be 
The thought o’ Mary Morison. 

Robert BrRxa. 

The Mixs trees Soxg. 

Oh, siug unto my roundelay ! 

Oh, drop the briny tear with me' 
Dance no more at holiday ; 

Like a running river be. 

My love is dead, 

Gone to his death bed, 

All under the willow tree. 









148 


FIRESIDE ENCYCLOPAEDIA OF POETRY. 


Black his hair as the winter night, 
White his neck as the summer snow, 
Buddy his face as the morning light; 
Cold he lies in the grave below. 

My love is dead, 

Gone to his death bed, 

All under the willow tree. 

Sweet his tongue as the throstle’s note; 

Quick in dance as thought can be ; 
Deft his tabor, cudgel stout; 

Oh, he lies by the willow tree! 

My love is dead, 

Gone to his death bed, 

All under the willow tree. 

Hark! the raven flaps his wing 
In the brier’d dell below; 

Hark! the death-owl loud doth sing 
To the nightmares as they go. 

My love is dead, 

Gone to his death bed, 

All under the willow tree. 

See ! the white moon shines on high ; 

Whiter is my true-love’s shroud, 
Whiter than the morning sky, 

Whiter than the evening cloud. 

My love is dead, 

Gone to his deathbed, 

All under the willow tree. 

Here, upon my true-love’s grave 
Shall the baren flowers be laid, 

Nor one holy saint to save 
All the coldness of a maid. 

My love is dead, 

Gone to his death bed, 

All under the willow tree. 

With my hands I’ll bind the briers 
Round his holy corse to gre ; 
Ouphante fairy, light your fires ; 

Here my body still shall be. 

My love is dead, 

Gone to his death bed, 

All under the willow tree. 

Come, with acorn-cup and thorn, 

Drain my heart’s blood all away ; 
Life and all its good I scorn, 

Dance by night, or feast by day. 

My love is dead, 

Gone to his death bed, 

All under the willow tree. 


Water-witches, crown’d with reytes. 
Bear me to your lethal tide. 

I die ! I come ! my true love waits, 

Thus the damsel spake, and died. 

Thomas CTiatterton. 

One Word is too often 
Profaned. 

One word is too often profaned 
For me to profane it, 

One feeling too falsely disdain’d 
For thee to disdain it. 

One hope is too like despair 
For prudence to smother, 

And pity from thee more dear 
Than that from another. 

I can give not what men call love ; 

But wilt thou accept not 
The worship the heart lifts above 
And the heavens reject not; 

The desire of the moth for the star, 
Of the night for the morrow, 

The devotion to something afar 
From the sphere of our sorrow? 

Percy Bysshe Shelley. 

To his Forsaken Mistress. 

I do confess thou’rt smooth and fair, 

And I might have gone near to love thee, 

Had I not found the lightest prayer 
That lips could speak, had power to 
move thee: 

But I can let thee now alone, 

As worthy to be loved by none. 

I do confess thou’rt sweet; yet find 
Thee'such an unthrift of thy sweets, 

Thy favors are but like the wind, 

That kisses everything it meets; 

And since thou canst with more than one. 

Thou’rt worthy to be kiss’d by none. 

The morning rose that untouch’d stands 
Arm’d with her briers, how sweetly 
smells! 

But pluck’d and strain’d through ruder 
hands, 

No more her sweetness with her dwells, 

But scent and beauty both are gone, 

And leaves fall from her, one by one. 




POEMS OF LOVE. 


149 


Such fate, erelong, will thee betide, 

When thou hast handled been a while,— 

Like sere flowers to be thrown aside: 

And I will sigh, while some will smile, 

To see thy love for more than one 

Hath brought thee to be loved by none. 

Sir Robert Ayton. 

Locksley Hall. 

Comrades, leave me here a little, while as 
yet ’tis early morn : 

Leave me here, and when you want me, 
sound upon the bugle horn. 

'Tis the place, and all around it, as of old, 
the curlews call, 

Dreary gleams about the moorland flying 
over Locksley Hall; 

Locksley Hall that in the distance over¬ 
looks the sandy tracts, 

And the hollow ocean-ridges roaring into 
cataracts. 

Many a night from yonder ivied casement, 
ere I went to rest, 

Did I look on great Orion sloping slowly 
to the West. 

Many a night I saw the Pleiads, rising 
thro’ the mellow shade, 

Glitter like a swarm of fire-flies tangled in 
a silver braid. 

Here about the beach I wander’d, nourish¬ 
ing a youth sublime 

With the fairy tales of science, and the 
long result of Time ; 

When the centuries behind me like a 
fruitful land reposed; 

When I clung to all the present for the 
promise that it ’closed : 

When I dipt into the future far as human 
eye could see; 

Saw the Vision of the world, and all the 
wonder that would be.-- 

In the Spring a fuller crimson comes upon 
the robin’s breast; 

In the Spring the wanton lapwing gets 
himself another crest: 


In the Spring a livelier iris changes on 
the burnish’d dove; 

In the Spring a young man’s fancy lightly 
turns to thoughts of love. 

Then her cheek was pale and thinner than 
should be for one so young, 

And her eyes on all my motions with a 
mute observance hung. 

And I said, “ My cousin Amy, speak, and 
speak the truth to me, 

Trust me, cousin, all the current of my 
being sets to thee.” 

On her pallid cheek and forehead came a 
color and a light, 

As I have seen the rosy red flushing in the 
northern night. 

And she turn’d—her bosom shaken with a 
sudden storm of sighs— 

All the spirit deeply dawning in the dark 
of hazel eyes— 

Saying, “ I have hid my feelings, fearing 
they should do me wrong 

Saying, “ Dost thou love me, cousin ?” 
weeping, “ I have loved thee long.” 

Love took up the glass of Time, and turn’d 
it in his glowing hands ; 

Every moment, lightly shaken, ran itself 
in golden sands. 

Love took up the harp of Life, and smote 
on all the chords with might; 

Smote the chord of Self, that, trembling, 
pass’d in music out of sight. 

Many a morning on the moorland did we 
hear the copses ring, 

And her whisper throng’d my pulses with 
the fullness of the Spring. 

Many an evening by the waters did we 
watch the stately ships, 

And our spirits rush’d together at the 
touching of the lips. 

O my cousin, shallow-hearted! O my 
Amy, mine no more ! 

0 the dreary, dreary moorland! 0 the 

barren, barren shore! 





150 


FIRESIDE ENGYCLOPvEDIA OF POETRY. 


Falser than all fancy fathoms, falser than 
all songs have sung, 

Puppet to a father’s threat, and servile to 
a shrewish tongue! 

Is it well to wish thee happy?—having 
known me—to decline 

On a range of lower feelings and a nar¬ 
rower heart than mine! 

Yet it shall be: thou shalt lower to his 
level day by day, 

What is fine within thee growing coarse to 
sympathize with clay. 

As the husband is, the wife is: thou art 
mated with a clown, 

And the grossness of his nature will have 
weight to drag thee down. 

He will hold thee, when his passion shall 
have spent its novel force, 

Something better than his dog, a little 
dearer than his horse. 

What is this ? his eyes are heavy: think 
not they are glazed with wine. 

Go to him : it is thy duty : kiss him : take 
his hand in thine. 

It may be my lord is weary, that his brain 
is overwrought; 

Soothe him with thy finer fancies, touch 
him with thy lighter thought. 

He will answer to the purpose, easy things 
to understand— 

Better thou wert dead before me, tho’ I 
slew thee with my hand ! 

Better thou and I were lying, hidden from 
the heart’s disgrace, 

Roll’d in one another’s arms, and silent in 
a last embrace. 

Cursed be the social wants that sin against 
the strength of youth ! 

Curs6d be the social lies that warp us from 
the living truth! 

Curs6d be the sickly forms that err from 
honest Nature’s rule! 

Cursed be the gold that gilds the straiten’d 
forehead of the fool! 


Well—’tis well that I should bluster!— 
Hadst thou less unworthy proved— 
Would to God—for I had loved thee more 
than ever wife was loved. 

Am I mad, that I should cherisli that 
which bears but bitter fruit ? 

I will pluck it from my bosom, tho’ m\ 
heart be at the root. 

Never, tho’ my mortal summers to such 
length of years should come 
As the many winter’d crow that leads the 
clanging rookery home. 

Where is comfort ? in division of the rec¬ 
ords of the mind ? 

Can I part her from herself, and love her. 
as I knew her, kind? 

I remember one that perish’d: sweetly did 
she speak and move : 

Such a one do I remember, whom to look 
at was to love. 

Can I think of her as dead, and love her 
for the love she bore ? 

No—she never loved me truly: love is love 
for evermore. 

Comfort? comfort scorn’d of devils ! this 
is truth the poet sings, 

That a sorrow’s crown of sorrow is remem¬ 
bering happier things. 

Drug thy memories, lest thou learn it, lest 
thy heart be put to proof, 

In the dead unhappy night, and when the 
rain is on the roof. 

Like a dog, he hunts in dreams, and thou 
art staring at the wall, 

Where the dying night-lamp flickers, and 
the shadows rise and fall. 

Then a hand shall pass before thee, point 
ing to his drunken sleep, 

To thy widow’d marriage-pillows, to the 
tears that thou wilt weep. 

Thou shalt hear the “Never, never,” whis¬ 
per’d by the phantom years, 

And a song from out the distance in the 
ringing of thine ears; 











POEMS OF LOVE. 


151 


And an eye shall vex thee, looking ancient 
kindness on thy pain. 

Turn thee, turn thee on thy pillow: get thee 
to thy rest again. 

Nay, but Nature brings thee solace; for a 
tender voice will cry. 

'Tis a purer life than thine; a lip to drain 
thy trouble dry. 

Baby lips will laugh me down: my latest 
rival brings thee rest. 

Baby lingers, waxen touches, press me 
from the mother’s breast. 

Oh, the child too clothes the father with a 
dearness not his due. 

Half is thine and half is his: it will be 
worthy of the two. 

Oh, I see thee old and formal, fitted to thy 
petty part, 

With a little hoard of maxims preaching 
down a daughter’s heart. 

“ They were dangerous guides the feelings 
—she herself was not exempt— 

Truly, she herself had suffer’d”—Perish in 
thy self-contempt! 

Overlive it—lower yet—be happy ! where¬ 
fore should I care ? 

I myself must mix with action, lest I 
wither by despair. 

What is that which I should turn to, light¬ 
ing upon days like these? 

Every door is barr’d with gold, and opens 
but to golden keys. 

Every gate is throng’d with suitors, all the 
markets overflow. 

I have but an angry fancy: what is that 
which I should do? 

I had been content to perish, falling on the 
foeman’s ground, 

When the ranks are roll’d in vapour, and 
the winds are laid with sound. 

But the jingling of the guinea helps the 
hurt that Honor feels, 

And the nations do but murmur, snarling 
at each other’s heels. 


Can I but re-live in sadness? I will turn 
that earlier page. 

Hide me from my deep emotion, 0 thou 
wondrous Mother-Age! 

Make me feel the wild pulsation that I felt 
before the strife, 

When I heard my days before me, and the 
tumult of my life; 

Yearning for the large excitement that the 
coming years would yield, 

: Eager-hearted as a boy when first he leaves 
his father’s field, 

| And at night along the dusky highway 
near and nearer drawn, 

Sees in heaven the light of London flaring- 
like a dreary dawn; 

And his spirit leaps within him to be gone 
before him then, 

Underneath the light he looks at, in among 
the throngs of men : 

Men, my brothers, men the workers, ever 
reaping something new ; 

That which they have done but earnest of 
the things that they shall do ; 

For I dipt into the future, far as human 
eye could see, 

Saw the vision of the world, and all the 
wonder that would be ; 

Saw the heavens fill with commerce, argo¬ 
sies of magic sails, 

Pilots of the purple twilight, dropping 
down with costly bales; 

Heard the heavens fill with shouting, and 
there rain’d a ghastly dew 

From the nations’ airy navies grappling in 
the central blue; 

Far along the world-wide whisper of the 
south wind rushing warm, 

With the standards of the peoples plung¬ 
ing thro’ the thunderstorm; 

Till the war-drum throbb’d no longer, and 
the battle-flags were furl’d 

In the Parliament of man, the Federation 
of the world. 









152 


FIRESIDE ENCYCLOPAEDIA OF POETRY. 


There the common sense of most shall 
hold a fretful realm in awe, 

And the kindly earth shall slumber, lapt 
in universal law. 

So I triumph’d ere my passion sweeping 
thro’ me left me dry, 

Left me with the palsied heart, and left 
me with the jaundiced eye; 

Eye, to which all order festers, all things 
here are out of joint; 

Science moves, but slowly, slowly, creep¬ 
ing on from point to point; 

Slowly comes a hungry people, as a lion 
creeping nigher, 

Glares at one that nods and winks behind 
a slowly dying fire. 

Yet I doubt not thro’ the ages one increas¬ 
ing purpose runs, 

And the thoughts of men are widen’d with 
the process of the suns. 

What is that to him that reaps not harvest 
of his youthful joys, 

Tho’ the deep heart of existence beat for 
ever like a boy’s? 

Knowledge comes, but wisdom lingers, and 
I linger on the shore, 

And the individual withers, and the world 
is more and more. 

Knowledge comes but wisdom lingers, and 
he bears a laden breast, 

Full of sad experience, moving toward the 
stillness of his rest. 

Hark ! my merry comrades call me, sound¬ 
ing on the bugle-horn, 

They to whom my foolish passion were a 
target for their scorn ; 

Shall it not be scorn to me to harp on such 
a moulder’d string ? 

I am shamed thro’ all my nature to have 
loved so slight a thing. 

Weakness to be wroth with weakness! 
woman’s pleasure, woman’s pain,— 

Nature made them blinder motions bound¬ 
ed in a shallower brain; 


Woman is the lesser man, and all thy pas¬ 
sions, match’d with mine, 

Are as moonlight unto sunlight, and as 
water unto wine— 

Here at least, where Nature sickens, noth¬ 
ing. Ah, for some retreat 
Deep in yonder shining Orient, where my 
life began to beat ; 

Where in wild Mahratta-battle fell my 
father evil-starr’d;— 

I was left a trampled orphan, and a selfish 
uncle’s ward. 

Or to burst all links of habit—there to 
wander far away, 

On from island unto island at the gateways 
of the day. 

Larger constellations burning, mellow 
moons and happy skies, 

Breadths of tropic shade and palms in 
cluster, knots of Paradise. 

Never comes the trader, never floats an 
European flag, 

Slides the bird o’er lustrous woodland, 
swings the trailer from the crag; 

Droops the heavy-blossom’d bower, hangs 
the heavy-fruited tree— 

Summer isles of Eden lying in dark-purple 
spheres of sea. 

There methinks would be enjoyment more 
than in this march of mind, 

In the steamship, in the railway, in the 
thoughts that shake mankind. 

There the passions cramp’d no longer shall 
have scope and breathing-space, 

I wfill take some savage woman, she shall 
rear my dusky race. 

Iron-jointed, supple-sinew’d, they shall 
dive, and they shall run, 

Catch the wild-goat by the hair, and hurl 
their lances in the sun ; 

Whistle back the parrot’s call, and leap the 
rainbows of the brooks, 

Not with blinded eyesight poring over 
miserable books— 




POEMS OF LOVE. 


153 


Fool, again the dream, the fancy! but I 
know my words are wild, 

But I count the gray barbarian lower than 
the Christian child. 

I, to herd with narrow foreheads, vacant 
of our glorious gains, 

Like a beast with lower pleasures, like a 
beast with lower pains! 

Mated with a squalid savage—what to me 
were sun or clime ? 

I the heir of all the ages, in the foremost 
files of time— 

I that rather held it better men should 
perish one by one, 

Than that earth should stand at gaze like 
Joshua’s moon in Ajalon ! 

Not in vain the distance beacons. For¬ 
ward, forward let us range, 

Let the great world spin for ever down the 
ringing grooves of change. 

Thro’ the shadow of the globe we sweep 
into the younger day: 

Better fifty years of Europe than a cycle 
of Cathay. 

Mother-Age (for mine I knew not), help 
me as when life begun: 

Rift the hills, and roll the waters, flash the 
lightnings, weigh the Sun. 

< >h, I see the crescent promise of my spirit 
hath not set. 

Ancient founts of inspiration well thro’ all 
my fancy yet. 

Howsoever these things be, a long farewell 
tc Locksley Hall! 

Now for me the woods may wither, now 
for me the roof-tree fall. 

CJomes a vapor from the margin, blacken¬ 
ing over heath and holt, 

Cramming all the blast before it, in its 
breast a thunderbolt. 

Let it fall on Locksley Hall, with rain or 
hail, or fire or snow ; 

For the mighty wind arises, roaring sea¬ 
ward, and I go. 

Alfred Tennyson. 


The Steadfast Shepherd. 
Hence away, thou Syren ; leave me. 

Pish ! unclasp those wanton arms ; 
Sugred words shall ne’er deceive me-' 
Though thou prove a thousand charms. 
Fie, fie, forbear; no common snare 
Can ever my affection chain: 

Your painted baits, and poor deceits, 

Are all bestow’d on me in vain. 

I’m no slave to such as you be; 

Neither shall a snowy breast, 

Wanton eye, or lip of ruby, 

Ever rob me of my rest. 

Go, go, display your beauty’s ray 
To some o’er-soon enamor’d swain : 
Those common wiles, of sighs and smiles, 
Are all bestow’d on me in vain. 

I have elsewhere vow’d my duty; 

Turn away your tempting eyes; 

Show not me a naked beauty; 

Those impostures I despise: 

My spirit loathes where gaudy clothes 
And feigned oaths may love obtain: 

I love her so whose look swears no, 

That all your labors will be vain. 

Can he prize the tainted posies, 

Which on every breast are worn, 

That may pluck the spotless roses 
From their never-touched thorn? 

I can go rest on her sweet breast 
That is the pride of Cynthia’s train; 
Then hold your tongues; your mermaid 
songs 

Are all bestow’d on me in vain. 

He’s a fool that basely dallies 
Where each peasant mates with him 
Shall I haunt the thronged valleys, 

While there’s noble hills to climb? 

No, no, though clowns are scared with 
frowns, 

I know the best can but disdain: 

And those I’ll prove: so shall your love 
Be all bestow’d on me in vain. 

Yet I would not deign embraces 
With the fairest queens that be, 

If another shared those graces 
Which they had bestow’d on me. 

I’ll grant that one my love, where none 
Shall come to rob me of my gain : 

The fickle heart makes tears and art, 

And all, bestow’d on me in vain. 




154 


FIRESIDE ENCYCLOPAEDIA OF POETRY 


I do scorn to vow a duty, 

Where each lustful lad may woo; 

Give me her whose sunlike beauty 
Buzzards dare not soar unto: 

She, she it is affords that bliss, 

For which I would refuse no pain ; 

But such as you, fond fools, adieu, 

You seek to captive me in vain. 

She, that’s proud in the beginning, 

And disdains each looker-on, 

If a coy one in the winning, 

Proves a true one, being won. 

Whate’er betide, she’ll ne’er divide 
The favor she to one doth deign ; 

But your fond love will tickle prove, 

And all, that trust in you, are vain. 

Therefore know, when I enjoy one, 

And for love employ my breath, 

She I court shall be a coy one 

Though I win her with my breath. 

A favor there few aim atxlare ; 

And if, perhaps, some lover plain, 

She is not won, nor I undone 
By placing of my love in vain. 

Leave me, then, thou Syren, leave me; 

Take away these charmed arms; 

Crafty wiles cannot deceive me, 

I am proof ’gainst women’s charms: 
You labor may to lead astray 
The heart, that constant must remain ; 
And I the while will sit and smile 
To see you spend your time in vain. 

George Wither. 

Farewell to Nancy. 

Ae fond kiss and then we sever! 

Ae farewell, and then for ever! 

Deep in heart-wrung tears I’ll pledge thee; 
Warring sighs and groans I’ll wage thee. 
Who shall say that Fortune grieves him, 
While the star of hope she leaves him'? 
Me, nae cheerful twinkle lights me; 

Dark despair around benights me. 

I’ll ne’er blame my partial fancy— 
Naething could resist my Nancy: 

But to see her was to love her, 

Love but her and love for ever. 

Had we never loved sae kindly, 

Had we never loved sae blindly, 

Never met—or never parted, 

We had ne’er been broken-hearted. 


1 Fare thee weel, thou first and fairest! 

Fare thee weel, thou best and dearest! 

; Thine be ilka joy and treasure, 

I Peace, enjoyment, love, and pleasure! 

■ Ae fond kiss, and then we sever! 

Ae farewell, alas! for ever! 

Deep in heart-wrung tears I’ll pledge thee: 

i Warring sighs and groans I’ll wage thee. 

I Robert Burns. 

A Praise of his Love. 

Give place, ye lovers, here before 

That spent your boasts and brags in 
vain; 

’ My lady’s beauty passeth more 

The best of yours, I dare well sayen, 
Than doth the sun the candlelight, 

| Or brightest day the darkest night; 

And thereto hath a troth as just 
As had Penelope the fair; 

For what she saith ye may it trust, 

As it by writing sealed were;— 

And virtues hath she many mo’ 

Than I with pen have skill to show. 

I could rehearse, if that I would, 

The whole effect of Nature’s plaint, 
When she had lost the perfect mould, 

The like to whom she could not paint. 
With wringing hands, how did she cry! 
And what she said, I know it aye. 

I know she swore, with raging mind, 

Pier kingdom only set apart, 

There was no loss by law of kind 
That could have gone so near her heart; 
And this was chiefly all her pain— 

“ She could not make the like again.” 

Sith Nature thus gave her the praise 
To be the chiefest work she wrought, 

In faith, metliink, some better ways 
On your behalf might well be sought, 
Than to compare, as ye have done, 

To match the candle with the sun. 

Henry Howard (Earl of Surrey). 

Sweet are the charms. 

Sweet are the charms of her I love: 

More fragrant than the damask rose, 
Soft as the down of turtle dove, 

Gentle as air when Zephyr blows, 
Refreshing as descending rains 
To sunburnt climes and thirsty plains. 








EU EM iS (Jh 1JJ VE. 


True as the needle to the pole, 

Or as the dial to the sun ; 

Constant as gliding waters roll, 

Whose swelling tides obey the moon— 
From every other charmer free, 

My life and love shall follow thee. 

The lamb the flowery thyme devours, 

The dam the tender kid pursues ; 

Sweet Philomel in shady bowers 
Of verdant spring her note renews : 

All follow what they most admire, 

As I pursue my soul’s desire. 

Nature must change her beauteous face, 
And vary as the seasons rise, 

As winter to the spring gives place, 
Summer th’ approach of autumn flies : 
No change on love the seasons bring,— 
Love only knows perpetual spring. 

Devouring Time with stealing pace, 
Makes lofty oaks and cedars bow ; 

And marble towers and gates of brass 
In his rude march he levels low ; 

But Time, destroying far and wide, 

Love from the soul can ne’er divide. 

Death only, with his cruel dart, 

The gentle godhead can remove, 

And drive him from the bleeding heart, 

To mingle with the blest above, 

Where, known to all his kindred train, 

He finds a lasting rest from pain. 

Love and his sister fair, the Soul, 

Twin born, from heaven together came; 
Love will the universe control 
When dying seasons lose their name ; 
Divine abodes shall own his power, 

When Time and Death shall be no more. 

Barton Booth. 

Genevieve. 

Maid of my love, sweet Genevieve; 

In beauty’s light you glide along ; 

Your eye is like the star of eve, 

And street your voice as seraph’s song. 
Yet not your heavenly beauty gives 
This heart with passion soft to glow; 
Within your soul a voice there lives, 

It bids you hear the tale of woe. 


lbo 


! When sinking low the sufferer wan 

Beholds no hand outstretch’d to save ; 
Fair as the bosom of the swan 
That rises graceful o’er the wave, 

I’ve seen your breast with pity heave, 

And therefore love I you, sweet Genevieve. 

Samuel Taylor Coleridge. 

The Miller’s Daughter. 

It is the miller’s daughter, 

And she is grown so dear, so dear, 

That I would be the jewel 
That trembles in her ear; 

For hid in ringlets day and night, 

I’d touch her neck so warm and white. 

And I would be the girdle 
About her dainty dainty waist, 

And her heart would beat against me, 

In sorrow and in rest; 

And I should know if it beat right, 

I’d clasp it round so close and tight. 

And I would be the necklace, 

And all day long to fall and rise 
Upon her balmy bosom, 

With her laughter or her sighs, 

And I would lie so light, so light, 

I scarce should be unclasp’d at night. 

Alfred Tennyson. 

Lesbia. 

When Lesbia first I saw, so heavenly fair, 
With eyes so bright and with that awful air, 
I thought my heart would durst so high as¬ 
pire, 

As bold as his who snatched celestial fire. 
But soon as e’er the beauteous idiot spoke, 
Forth from her coral lips such folly broke; 
Like balm the trickling nonsense healed 
my wound, 

And what her eyes enthralled, her tongue 
unbound. 

William Congreve. 


A MO RET. 

Fair Amoret is gone astray, 

Pursue and seek her, every lover; 

I’ll tell the signs by which you may 
The wandering shepherdess discover. 








156 


FIRESIDE ENCYCLOPAEDIA OF POETRY. 


Coquet and coy at once her air, 

Both studied, though both seem neg¬ 
lected ; 

Careless she is with artful care, 

Affecting to be unaffected. 

With skill her eyes dart every glance, 

Yet change so soon you’d ne’er suspect 
them; 

For she’d persuade they wound by chance, 
Though certain aim and art direct them. 

She likes herself, yet others hates 
For that which in herself she prizes; 
And, while she laughs at them, forgets 
She is the thing which she despises. 

William Congreve. 

Rosa dens Sonetto. 

Turn I my looks unto the skies, 

Love with his arrows wounds mine eyes; 

If so I look upon the ground, 

Love then in every flower is found; 

Search I the shade to flee my pain, 

Love meets me in the shades again ; 

Want I to walk in secret grove, 

E’en there I meet with sacred love; 

If so I bathe me in the spring, 

E’en on the brink I hear him sing; 

If so I meditate alone, 

He will be partner of my moan ; 

If so I mourn, he weeps with me, 

And where I am there will he be; 

When as I talk of Rosalind, 

The god from coyness waxeth kind, 

And seems in self-same frame to fly, 
Because he loves as well as I. 

Sweet Rosalind, for pity rue, 

For why, than love I am more true : 

He, if he speed, will quickly fly, 

But in thy love I live and die. 

Thomas Lodge. 

Kisses. 

My love and I for kisses play’d : 

She would keep stakes—I was content; 
But when I won, she would be paid ; 

This made me ask her what she meant. I 
“Pray, since I see,” quoth she, “your 
wrangling vein, 

Take your own kisses; give memine again.” 

William Strode. 


A Stolen Kiss. 

Now gentle sleep hath closkl up those 
eyes 

Which, waking, kept my boldest thoughts 
in awe ; 

And free access unto that sweet lip lies, 
From whence I long the rosy breath to 
draw. 

Methinks no wrong it were, if I should 
steal 

From those melting rubies, one poor 
kiss; 

None sees the theft that would the theft 
reveal, 

Nor rob I her of aught what she can 
miss: 

Nay, should I twenty kisses take aw r ay, 
There would be little sign I would do 
so; 

Why, then, should I this robbery delay? 
Oh, she may wake, and therewith angry 
grow! 

Well, if she do, I’ll back restore that one, 

And twenty hundred thousand more for 
loan. 

George Wither. 

Three Loves. 

There were three maidens who loved a 
king; 

They sat together beside the sea; 

One cried, “ I love him, and I would die 
If but for one day he might love me !” 

The second whispered, “And I would die 
To gladden his life, or make him great.” 

The third spake not, but gazed afar 
With dreamy eyes that were sad as Fate. 

The king he loved the first for a day, 

The second his life with fond love blest; 

And yet the woman who never spoke 
Was the one of the three who loved him 
best. 

Lccy Hamilton Hooper. 

Song. 

My dear mistress has a heart 
Soft as those kind looks she gave me, 

When with love’s resistless art, 

And her eyes, she did enslave me. 






POEMS OF LOVE. 


157 


But her constancy’s so weak, 

She’s so wild and apt to wander, 

That my jealous heart would break 
Should we live one day asunder. 

Melting joys about her move, 

Killing pleasures, wounding blisses: 

She can dress her eyes in love, 

And her lips can warm with kisses. 

Angels listen when she speaks, 

She’s my delight, all mankind’s wonder; 

But my jealous heart would break, 

Should we live one day asunder. 

John Wilmot (Earl of Rochester). 

A Red, Red Rose. 

My luve is like a red, red rose 
That’s newly sprung in June; 

My luve is like the melodie 
That’s sweetly play’d in tune. 

As fair art thou, my bonnie lass, 

So deep in luve am I, 

And I will luve thee still, my dear, 

Till a’ the seas gang dry; 

Till a’ the seas gang dry, my dear, 

And the rocks melt wi’ the sun; 

And I will luve thee still, my dear, 
While the sands o’ life shall run. 

And fare thee well, my only Luve! 

And fare thee well a while, 

And I will come again, my Luve, 

Tho’ ’twere ten thousand mile. 

Robert Burns. 


Stanzas. 

Oh, talk not to me of a name great in 
story; 

The days of our youth are the days of our 
glory, 

And the myrtle and ivy of sweet two-and 
twenty 

Are worth all your laurels, though ever so 
plenty. 

What are garlands and crowns to the 
brow that is wrinkled? 

’Tis but as a dead flower with May-dew be¬ 
sprinkled ; 


Then away with all such from the head 
that is hoary,— 

What care I for the wreaths that can only 
give glory ? 

O Fame! if I e’er took delight in thy 
praises, 

’Twas less for the sake of thy high-sound¬ 
ing phrases 

Than to see the bright eyes of the dear one 
discover 

She thought that I was not unworthy to 
love her. 

There chiefly I sought thee, there only I 
found thee; 

Her glance was the best of the rays that 
surround thee; 

When it sparkled o’er aught that was 
bright in my story, 

I knew it was love, and I felt it was 
glory. 

Lord Byron. 

Stanzas for Music. 

There be none of Beauty’s daughters 
With a magic like thee, 

And like music on the waters 
Is thy sweet voice to me; 

When, as if its sound were causing 
The charmed ocean’s pausing, 

The waves lie still and gleaming, 

And the lull’d winds seem dreaming. 

And the midnight moon is weaving 
Her bright chain o’er the deep, 

Whose breast is gently heaving 
As an infant’s asleep ; 

So the spirit bows before thee 
To listen and adore thee, 

With a full but soft emotion, 

Like the swell of Summer’s ocean. 

Lord Byron. 

Thou hast Sworn by thy God , 
my Jeanie. 

Thou hast sworn "by thy God, my Jeanie, 
By that pretty white hand o’ thine, 

And by a’ the lowing stars in heaven, 

That thou wad ay be mine; 

And I hae sworn by my God, my Jeanie. 
And by that kind heart o’ thine, 






FIRESIDE ENCYCLOPAEDIA OF POETRY. 


158 


By a’ the stars sown thick owre heaven, 
That thou shalt ay be mine. 

Then foul fa’ the hands that wad loose sic 
bands, 

An’ the heart that wad part sic love; 

But there’s nae hand can loose the band, 
Save the finger o’ God above. 

Though the wee wee cot maun be my 
bield, 

An’ my claithing e’er sae mean, 

I wad lap me up rich i’ the faulds o’ luve, 
Heaven’s arinfu’ o’ my Jean. 

Her white arm wad be a pillow to me 
Fu’ safter than the down ; 

An’ Love wad winnow owre us his kind 
kind wings, 

An’ sweetly I’d sleep, an’ soun’. 

Come here to me, thou lass o’ my luve, 
Come here, an’ kneel wi’ me, 

The morning is fu’ o’ the presence o’ 
God, 

An’ I canua pray but thee. 

The morn-wind is sweet ’mang the beds o’ 
new flowers, 

The wee birds sing kindlie an’ Hie, 

Our gudeman leans owre his kail-yard 
dyke, 

An’ a blvthe auld body is lie. 

The Book maun be ta’en when the carl 
comes ha me, 

Wi’ the holie psalmodie, 

An’ thou maun speak o’ me to thy God, 
An’ I will speak o’ thee. 

Allan Cunningham. 

The Welcome. 

i. 

Come in the evening, or come in the 
morning; 

Come when you’re looked for, or come 
without warning; 

Kisses and welcome you’ll find here before 
you, 

And the oftener you come here the more 
I’ll adore you! 

Light is my heart since the day we were 
plighted; 

Red is my cheek that they told me was 
blighted; 


The green of the trees looks far greener 
than ever, 

And the linnets are singing, “True 
lovers don’t sever I’¬ 
ll. 

I’ll pull you sweet flowers, to wear if you 
choose them! 

Or, after you’ve kiss’d them, they’ll lie on 
my bosom; 

I’ll fetch from the mountain its breeze to 
inspire you; 

I’ll fetch from my fancy a tale that won’t 
tire you. 

Oh, your step’s like the rain to the 
summer-vex’d farmer, 

Or sabre and shield to a knight without 
armor ; 

I’ll sing you sweet songs till the stars 
rise above me, 

Then, wandering, I’ll wish you in silence 
to love me. 

in. 

We’ll look through the trees at the cliff 
and the eyrie; 

We’ll tread round the rath on the track of 
the fairy; 

We’ll look on the stars, and we’ll list to 
the river, 

Till you ask of vour darling what gift you 
can give her. 

Oh, she’ll whisper you,—“ Love, as un¬ 
changeably beaming, 

And trust, when in secret, most tunefully 
streaming; 

Till the starlight of heaven above us 
shall quiver, 

As our souls flow in one down eternity’s 
river.” 

IV. 

So come in the evening, or come in the 
morning; 

Come when you’re look’d for, or come 
without warning; 

Kisses and welcome you’ll find here before 
you, 

And the oftener you come here the more 
I’ll adore you! 

Light is my heart since the day we were 
plighted; 

Red is my cheek that they told me was 
blighted; 








POEMS OF LOVE. 


The green of the trees looks far greener 
than ever, 

And the linnets are singing, “ True 
lovers don’t sever!” 

Thomas Osborne Davis. 

The Hermit. 

“ Turn, gentle hermit of the dale, 

And guide my lonely way 

To where yon taper cheers the vale 
With hospitable ray. 

“For here forlorn and lost I tread, 

With fainting steps and slow; 

Where wilds, immeasurably spread, 

Seem lengthening as I go.” 

“ Forbear, my son,” the hermit cries, 

“ To tempt the dangerous gloom; 

For yonder faithless phantom flies 
To lure thee to thy doom. 

“ Here to the houseless child of want 
My door is open still; 

And though my portion is but scant, 

I give it with good will. 

“Then turn to-night, and freely share 
Whate’er my cell bestows; 

My rushy couch and frugal fare, 

My blessing and repose. 

% 

“ No flocks that range the valley free 
To slaughter I condemn; 

Taught by that power that pities me, 

I learn to pity them ; 

“ But from the mountain’s grassy side 
A guiltless feast I bring; 

A scrip with herbs and fruits supplied, 
And water from the spring. 

“ Then, pilgrim, turn ; thy cares forego; 
All earth-born cares are wrong; 

Man wants but little here below, 

Nor wants that little long.” 

Soft as the dew from heaven descends, 

His gentle accents fell; 

The modest stranger lowly bends, 

And follows to the cell. 

Far in a wdlderness obscure 
The lonely mansion lay; 


159 


A refuge to the neighboring poor, 

And strangers led astray. 

No stores beneath its humble thatch 
Required a master’s care : 

The wicket, opening with a latch, 
Received the harmless pair. 

And now, when busy crowds retire 
To take their evening rest, 

The hermit trimm’d his little tire, 

And cheer’d his pensive guest; 

And spread his vegetable store, 

And gaily prest and smiled ; 

And, skill’d in legendary lore, 

The lingering hours beguiled. 

Around, in sympathetic mirth, 

Its tricks the kitten tries; 

1 The cricket chirrups on the hearth ; 

The crackling fagot flies. 

But nothing could a charm impart 
To soothe the stranger’s woe ; 

For grief was heavy at his heart, 

And tears began to flow. 

His rising cares the hermit spied, 

With answering care opprest: 

“And whence, unhappy youth,” he cried, 
“ The sorrows of thy breast? 

“ From better habitations spurn’d, 
Reluctant dost thou rove ? 

Or grieve for friendship unreturn’d, 

Or unregarded love? 

“ Alas ! the joys that fortune brings 
Are trifling, and decay ; 

And those who prize the paltry things, 
More trifling still than they. 

“ And what is friendship but a name, 

A charm that lulls to sleep; 

A shade that follows wealth or fame. 

And leaves the wretch to weep ? 

“ And love is still an emptier sound, 

The modern fair one’s jest; 

On earth unseen, or only found 
To warm the turtle’s nest. 

“ For shame, fond youth! thy sorrows hush 
And spurn the sex,” he said ; 

But, while he spoke, a rising blush 
His lovelorn guest betray’d. 









100 


FIRESIDE ENCYCLOPAEDIA OF POETRY. 


Surprised, he sees new beauties rise, 
Swift mantling to the view ; 

Like colors o’er the morning skies, 

As bright, as transient too. 

The bashful look, the rising breast, 
Alternate spread alarms: 

The lovely stranger stands contest, 

A maid in all her charms. 

“And, ah ! forgive a stranger rude, 

A wretch forlorn,” she cried ; 

“ Whose feet unhallow’d thus intrude 
Where heaven and you reside. 

“ But let a maid thy pity share, 

Whom love has taught to stray ; 

Who seeks for rest, but finds despair 
Companion of her way. 

“ My father lived beside the Tyne, 

A wealthy lord was he ; 

And all his wealth was mark’d as mine, 
He had but only me. 

*’ To win me from his tender arms, 

Unnumber’d suitors came ; 

Who praised me for imputed charms, 
And felt, or feign’d, a flame. 

“ Each hour a mercenary crowd 
With richest proffers strove : 

Among the rest young Edwin bow’d, 
But never talk’d of love. 

“ In humble, simplest habit clad, 

No wealth nor power had he; 

Wisdom and worth were all he had, 

But these were all to me. 

“ And when beside me in the dale 
He caroll’d lays of love, 

His breath lent fragrance to the gale, 
And music to the grove. 

“ The blossom opening to the day, 

The dews of heaven refined, 

Could naught of purity display 
To emulate his mind. 

“ The dew, the blossom on the tree, 
With charms inconstant shine; 

Their charms were his, but, woe to me ! 
Their constancy was mine. 


“ For still I tried each fickle art, 
Importunate and vain; 

And while his passion touch’d my heart, 

I triumph’d in his pain : 

“ Till, quite dejected with my scorn. 

He left me to my pride ; 

And sought a solitude forlorn, 

In secret, where he died. 

“ But mine the sorrow, mine the fault, 

And well my life shall pay; 

I’ll seek the solitude he sought, 

And stretch me where he lay. 

“ And there forlorn, despairing, hid, 

I’ll lay me down and die ; 

’Twas so for me that Edwin did, 

And so for him will I.” 

“ Forbid it, Heaven !” the hermit cried, 
And clasp’d her to his breast; 

The wondering fair one turn’d to chide,- 
’Twas Edwin’s self that prest. 

“ Turn, Angelina, ever dear, 

My charmer, turn to see 

Thy own, thy long-lost Edwin here, 
Restored to love and thee. 

“ Thus let me hold thee to my heart, 

And every care resign ; 

And shall we never, never part, 

My life—my all that’s mine?^ 

“No, never from this hour to part, 

We’ll live and love so true ; 

The sigh that rends thy constant heart 
Shall break thy Edwin’s too.” 

Oliver Goldsmith. 

The Triumph of Charis. 

See the chariot at hand here of Love ! 
Wherein my lady rideth ! 

Each that draws is a swan, or a dove— 
And well the car Love guideth. 

As she goes, all hearts do duty 

Unto her beauty; 

And, enamor’d, do wish, so they might 

IJut enjoy such a sight, 

That they still were to run by her side 

Through swords, through seas, whither 
she would ride. 





POEMS OF LOVE. 


161 


Do but look on her eyes ! they do light 
All that Love’s world compriseth ; 

Do but look on her hair ! it is bright 
As Love’s star when it riseth ! 

1 )o but mark—her forehead’s smoother 

Than words that soothe her! 

And from her arch’d brows such a grace 

Sheds itself through the face, 

As alone there triumphs to the life, 

All the gain, all the good, of the elements’ 
strife. 

Have you seen but a bright lily grow, 
Before rude hands have touch’d it? 

Have you mark’d but the fall of the snow, 
Before the soil hath smutch’d it f 

Have you felt the wool of the beaver? 

Or swan’s down ever ? 

Or have smelt o’ the bud of the brier? 

Or the nard i’ the fire ? 

Or have tasted the bag of the bee ? 

Oh, so wh ite! oh, so soft! oh, so sweet is she! 

Ben Jonson. 

Tell me How to Woo Tilee. 

If doughty deeds my lady please, 

Right soon I’ll mount my steed ; 

And strong his arm, and fast his seat 
That bears frae me the meed. 

I’ll wear thy colors in my cap, 

Thy picture at my heart; 

And he that bends not to thine eye 
Shall rue it to his smart! 

Then tell me how to woo thee, Love; 
Oh tell me how to woo thee ! 

For thy dear sake, nae care I’ll take, 
Tho’ ne’er another trow me. 

If gay attire delight thine eye 
I’ll dight me iii array ; 

I’ll tend thy chamber door all night, 

And squire thee all the day. 

If sweetest sounds can win thine ear, 
These sounds I’ll strive to catch ; 

Thy voice I’ll steal to woo thysell, 

That voice that nane can match. 

But if fond love thy heart can gain, 

I never broke a vow ; 

^ae maiden lays her skaith to me, 

I never loved but you. 

For you alone I ride the ring, 

For you I wear the blue; 

11 


For you alone I strive to sing, 

Oh tell me how to woo ! 

Then tell me how to woo thee, Love ; 
Oh tell me how to woo thee, 

For thy dear sake, nae care I’ll take, 
Tho’ ne’er another trow me. 

Robert Graham of Gartmork. 

0 Nanny, wjlt Thou go with 
Me. 

O Nanny, wilt thou go with me, 

Nor sigh to leave the flaunting town ? 

Can silent glens have charms for thee,— 
The lowly cot and russet gown ? 

No longer drest in silken sheen, 

No longer deck’d with jewels rare,— 

Say, canst thou quit each courtly scene, 
Where thou wert fairest of the fair ? 

O Nanny, when thou’rt far away, 

Wilt thou not cast a wish behind ? 

Say, canst thou face the parching ray, 

Nor shrink before the wintry wind? 

Oh, can that soft and gentle mien 
Extremes of hardship learn to bear. 

Nor sad regret each courtly scene, 

Where thou wert fairest of the fair? 

O Nanny, canst thou love so true, 

Through perils keen with me to go; 

Or when thy swain mishap shall rue, 

To share with him the pang of woe? 

Say, should disease or pain befall, 

Wilt thou assume the nurse’s care, 

Nor wistful those gay scenes recall, 

Where thou wert fairest of the fair ? 

And when at last thy love shall die, 

Wilt thou receive his parting breath, 

Wilt thou repress each struggling sigh, 
And cheer with smiles the bed of death ? 

And wilt thou o’er his breathless clay 
Strew flowers and drop the tender tear, 

Nor then regret those scenes so gay, 
Where thou wert fairest of the fair? 

Thomas Percy. 

When Maggy Gangs Away. 
Oh, what will a’ the lads do 
When Maggy gangs away ? 

Oh, what will a’ the lads do 
When Maggy gangs away ? 








FIRESIDE ENCYCLOPEDIA OF POETRY. 


ir ,2 


There’s no a heart in a’ the glen 
That disua dread the day: 

Oh, what will a’ the lads do 
When Maggy gangs away ? 

Young Jock has ta’en the hill for’t, 

A waefu’ wight is he; 

Poor Harry’s ta’en the bed for’t, 

An’ laid him down to dee; 

An’ Sandy’s gane unto the kirk, 

An’ learnin’ fast to pray: 

And oh, what will the lads do 
When Maggy gangs away ? 

The young laird o’ the Lang-Shaw 
Has drunk her health in wine; 

The priest has said—in confidence— 
The lassie was divine, 

And that is mair in maiden’s praise 
Than ony priest should say: 

But oh, what will the lads do 
'When Maggy gangs away? 

The wailing in our green glen 
That day will quaver high ; 

’Twill draw the redbreast frae the wood, 
The laverock frae the sky; 

The fairies frae their beds o’ dew 
Will rise an’ join the lay: 

An’ hey! what a day ’twill be 
When Maggy gangs away ! 

James Hogg. 


BELIEVE ME, IF ALL THOSE EN¬ 
DEARING Young Charms. 

Believe me, if all those endearing young 
charms, 

Which I gaze on so fondly to-day, 

Were to change by to-morrow, and fleet in 
my arms, 

Like fairy-gifts fading away, 

Thou wouldst still be adored, as this mo¬ 
ment thou art, 

Let thy loveliness fade as it will, 

And around the dear ruin each wish of 
my heart 

Would entwine itself verdantly still. 

It is not while beauty and youth are thine 
own, 

And thy cheeks unprofaned by a tear, 


That the fervor and faith of a soul can be 
known, 

To which time will but make thee more 
dear; 

No, the heart that has truly loved never 
forgets, 

But as truly loves on to the close, 

As the sun-flower turns on her god, when 
he sets, 

The same look which she turn’d when 
he rose. 

Thomas Moore. 

SONNET: TO AURORA. 

O, if thou knew’st how thou thyself dost 
harm, 

And dost prejudge thy bliss, and spoil my 
rest; 

Then thou wouldst melt the ice out of thy 
breast 

And thy relenting heart 'would kindly 
warm. 

O, if thv pride did not our joys control, 

What world of loving wonders should’st 
thou see! 

For if I saw thee once transform’d in me, 

Then in thy bosom I would pour my soul; 

Then all my thoughts should in thy visage 
shine, 

And if that aught mischanced thou should 
not moan 

Nor bear the burthen of thy griefs alone; 

No, I would have my share in what were 
thine: 

And whilst we thus should make our sor¬ 
rows one, 

This happy harmony would make them 
none. 

William Alexander (Earl of Stirling). 


Go, Pretty Birds. 

Ye little birds that sit and sing 
Amidst the shady valleys, 

And see how Phillis sweetly walks 
Within her garden-alleys,— 

Go, pretty birds, about her bower; 
Sing, pretty birds, she may not lower; 
Ah me ! methinks I see her frown ! 

Ye pretty wantons, warble. 







POEMS OF LOVE. 


163 


Go tell her through your chirping bilk, 
As you by me are bidden, 

To her is only known my love, 

Which from the world is hidden,— 
Go, pretty birds, and tell her so; 

See that your notes strain not too low. 
For still, methinks, I see her frown. 

Ye pretty wantons, warble. 

Go, tune your voices’ harmony, 

And sing I am her lover; 

Strain loud and sweet, that every note 
With sweet content may move her; 
And she that hath the sweetest voice, 
Tell her I will not change my choice; 
Yet still, methinks, I see her frown. 

Ye pretty wantons, warble. 

Oh fly! make haste! see, see, she falls 
Into a pretty slumber; 

Sing round about her rosy bed, 

That, waking, she may wonder; 

Say to her ’tis her lover true 


That sendeth love to you, to you; 

And when you hear her kind reply 
Return with pleasant warblings. 

Thomas Heywood. 

Tou jours Amour. 

Prithee tell me, Dimple-Chin, 

At what age does Love begin ? 

Your blue eyes have scarcely seen 
Summers three, my fairy queen, 

But a miracle of sweets, 

Soft approaches, sly retreats, 

Show the little archer there, 

Hidden in your pretty hair; 

When didst learn a heart to win ? 
Prithee tell me, Dimple-Chin ! 

* Oh !” the rosy lips reply, 

“ I can’t tell you if I try. 

’Tis so long I can’t remember: 

Ask some younger lass than I!” 

Tell, oh tell me, Grizzled-Face, 

Do your heart and head keep pace? 
When does hoary Love expire, 

When do frosts put out the fire? 

Can its embers burn below 
All that chill December snow ? 

Care you still soft hands to press, 
Bonny heads to smooth and bless? 


When does Love give up the chase ? 

Tell, oh tell me, Grizzled-Face! 

“ Ah !” the wise old lips reply, 

“Youth may pass, and strength may die; 

But of Love I can’t foretoken : 

Ask some older sage than I!” 

Edmund Clarence StedmaN. 

Sweet-and - Twenty. 

O, mistress mine, wdiere are you roaming? 

Oh, stay and hear; your true love’s coming, 

That can sing both high and low: 

Trip no farther, pretty sweeting; 

Journeys end in lovers’ meeting, 

Every wise man’s son doth know. 

What is love? ’tis not hereafter; 

Present mirth hath present laughter; 

What’s to come is still unsure: 

In delay there lies no plenty; 

Then come kiss me, Sweet-and-Twenty, 

Youth’s a stuff will not endure. 

William Shakespeare. 

Jessie, the Flower o’ Dumb lane. 

The sun has gane down o’er the lofty Ben- 
lomond, 

And left the red clouds to preside o’er 
the scene, 

While lanely I stray in the calm simmer 
gloamin’, 

To muse on sweet Jessie, the Flow’r o’ 
Dumblane. 

How sweet is the brier, wi’ its saft fauldin’ 
blossom, 

And sweet is the birk, wi’ its mantle o’ 
green; 

Yet sweeter and fairer, and dear to this 
bosom, 

Is lovely young Jessie, the Flow’r o* 
Dumblane. 

She’s modest as ony, and blithe as she’s 
bonnie,— 

For guileless simplicity marks her its 
ain; 

And Air be the villain, divested of feel¬ 
ing, 

Wha’d blight in its bloom the sweet 
Flow’r o’ Dumblane. 







164 


FIRESIDE ENCYCLOPAEDIA OF POETRY. 


Sing on, thou sweet mavis, thy hymn to 
the e’ening!— 

Thou’rt dear to the echoes of Calder- 
wood glen : 

Sae dear to this bosom, sae artless and 
winning, 

Is charming young Jessie, the Flow’r o’ 
Dumblane. 

How lost were my days till I met wi’ my 
Jessie! 

The sports o’ the city seem’d foolish 
and vain: 

I ne’er saw a nymph I would ca’ my dear 
lassie 

Till charm’d wi’ sweet Jessie, the Flow’r 
o’ Dumblane. 

Though mine were the station o’ loftiest 
grandeur, 

Amidst its profusion I’d languish in 
pain, 

And reckon as naething the height o’ its 
splendor, 

If wanting sweet Jessie, the Flow’r o’ 
Dumblane. 

Robert Tannahill. 

Mary of Castle Cary. 

“Saw ye my wee thing, saw ye my ain 
thing, 

Saw ye my true love down on yon lea? 

Cross’d she the meadow yestreen at the 
gloaming, 

Sought she the burnie where flowers 
the haw tree ? 

Her hair it is lint-white, her skin it is 
milk-white, 

Dark is the blue of her saft-rolling ee; 

Red, red her ripe lips, and sweeter than 
roses— 

Where could my wee thing wander frae 
me?” 

” I saw nae your wee thing, I saw nae your 
ain thing, 

Nor saw I your true love down by yon 
lea; 

Rut I met my bonny thing late in the 
gloaming, 

Down by the burnie where flowers the 
haw tree: 


Her hair it was lint-white, her skin it 
was milk-white, 

Dark was the blue of her saft-rolling ee; 

Red were her ripe lips, and sweeter than 
roses— 

Sweet were the kisses that she gave to 
me.” 

“ It was nae my wee thing, it was nae my 
ain thing, 

It was nae my true love ye met by the 
tree; 

Proud is her leal heart, and modest her 
nature; 

She never loved ony till ance she lo’ed 
me. 

Her name it is Mary; she’s frae Castle 
Cary; 

Aft has she sat when a bairn on my 
knee: 

Fair as your face is, were’t fifty times 
fairer, 

Young bragger, she ne’er wad gie kisses 
to thee.” 

“It was then your Mary; she’s frae Castle 
Cary; 

It was then your true love I met by the 
tree; 

Proud as her heart is, and modest her 
nature, 

Sweet were the kisses that she gave to 
me.” 

Sair gloom’d his dark brow, blood-red his 
cheek grew, 

Wild flash’d the fire frae his red-rolling 
ee; 

“Ye’se rue sair this morning your boasts 
and your scorning, 

Defend ye, fause traitor; fu’ loudly ye 
lie.” 

“ Away wi’ beguiling!” cried the youth, 
smiling— 

Off went the bonnet, the lint-white 
locks flee, 

The belted plaid fa’ing, her white bosom 
shawing, 

Fair stood the loved maid wi’ the dark¬ 
rolling ee. 

“ Is it iny wee thing, is it my ain thing, 

Is it my true love here that I see?” 





POEMS OF LOVE. 


165 


“0 Jamie, forgie me; your heart’s con¬ 
stant to me; 

I’ll never mair wander, dear laddie, 
frae thee.” 

Hector Macneill. 


Rory O'More. 

Young Rory O’More courted Kathleen 
bawn; 

He was bold as the hawk, and she soft as 
the dawn ; 

He wish’d in his heart pretty Kathleen to 
please, 

And he thought the best way to do that 
was to tease. 

“ Now, Rory, be aisy,” sweet Kathleen 
would cry, 

Reproof on her lip, but a smile in her eye—■ 

“ With your tricks, I don’t know, in troth, 
what I’m about ; 

Faith, you’ve teased till I’ve put on my 
cloak inside out.” 

“ Och! jewel,” says Rory, “ that same is 
the way 

You’ve thrated my heart for this many a 
day; 

And ’tis plased that I am, and why not, to 
be sure ? 

For ’tis all for good luck,” savs bold Rory 
O’More. 

“ Indeed, then,” says Kathleen, “ don’t 
think of the like, 

For 1 half gave a promise to soothering 
Mike; 

The ground that I walk on he loves, I’ll be 
bound.” 

“ Faith !” says Rory, “ I’d rather love you 
than the ground.” 

Now, Rory, I’ll cry if you don’t let me 

go; 

Sure 1 dhrame every night that I’m hating 
you so.” 

“ Och !” says Rory, “ that same I’m de¬ 
lighted to hear, 

For dhrames always go by conthraries, my 
dear. 

So, jewel, keep dliramin’ that same till 
you die, 

And bright mornin’ will give dirty night 
the black lie; 


And ’tis plased that I am, and why not, to 
be sure ? 

Since ’tis all for good luck,” says bold Rory 
O’More. 

“ Arrah, Kathleen, my darlint, you’ve 
teased me enough; 

Sure I’ve thrash’d, for your sake, Dinny 
Grimes and Jim Duff; 

And I’ve made myself, dhrinkin’ your 
health; quite a baste, 

So I think, after that, I may talk to the 
priest .” 

Then Rory, the rogue, stole his arm round 
her neck, 

So soft and so white, without freckle or 
speck; 

And he look’d in her eyes, that were 
beaming with light, 

And he kiss’d her sweet lips—don’t you 
think he was right ? 

“ Now, Rory, leave off, sir, you’ll hug me 
no more, 

That’s eight times to-day that you’ve kiss’d 
me before.” 

“ Then here goes another,” says he, “ to 
make sure, 

For there’s luck in odd numbers,” says 
Rory O’More. 

Samuel Lover. 

The Low-backed Car. 

When first I saw sweet Peggy, 

’Twas on a market-day; 

A low-back’d car she drove, and sat 
Upon a truss of hay; 

But when that hay was blooming grass, 
And deck’d with flowers of spring, 

No flower was there that could compare 
With the blooming girl I sing. 

As she sat in the low-back’d car, 

The man at the turnpike bar 
Never ask’d for the toll, 

But just rubb’d his owld poll, 

And look’d after the low-back’d car. 

In battle’s wild commotion, 

The proud and mighty Mars 

With hostile scythes demands his tithes 
Of death—in warlike cars ; 

While Peggy, peaceful goddess, 

Has darts in her bright eye 




166 


FIRESIDE ENCYCLOPAEDIA OF POETRY. 


That knock men down in tlie market-town, 
As right and left they fly; 

While she sits in her low-back’d car, 

Than battle more dangerous far,— 

For the doctor’s art 
Cannot cure the heart 
That is hit from that low-back’d car. 

Sweet Peggy round her car, sir, 

Has strings of ducks and geese, 

But the scores of hearts she slaughters 
By far outnumber these; 

While she among her poultry sits, 

Just like a turtle-dove, 

Well worth the cage, I do engage, 

Of the blooming god of love; 

While she sits in her low-back’d car, 

The lovers come near and far, 

And envy the chicken 
That Peggy is pickin’, 

As she sits in her low-back’d car. 

Oh, I’d rather own that car, sir, 

With Peggy by my side, 

Than a coach and four, and gold galore, 
And a lady for my bride; 

For the lady would sit forninst me, 

On a cushion made with taste, 

While Peggy would sit beside me, 

With my arm around her waist, 

While we drove in the low-back’d car 
To be married by Father Maher; 

Oh, my heart would beat high 
At her glance and her sigh, 

Though it beat in a low-back’d car. 

Samuel Lover. 

Jessy. 

Here’s a health to ane I lo’e dear, 

Here’s a health to ane I lo’e dear; 

Thou art sweet as the smile when fond 
lovers meet, 

And soft as their parting tear, Jessy ! 

Altho’ thou maun never be mine, 

Altho’ even hope is denied, 

’Tis sweeter for thee despairing 
Than aught in the world beside, Jessy. 

I mourn thro’ the gay, gaudy day, 

As, hopeless, I muse on thy charms, 
But welcome the dream o’ sweet slumber, 
For then I am lock’d in thine arms, Jessy. 


I guess by the dear angel smile, 

I guess by thy love-rolling ee; 

But why urge the tender confession 
’Gainst fortune’s fell cruel decree, Jessy? 

Here’s a health to ane I lo’e dear, 

Here’s a health to ane I lo’e dear; 

Thou art sweet as the smile when fond 
lovers meet, 

And soft as their parting tear, Jessy. 

Robert Burns. 

The Dole's r this Bonnet o' Mine. 

The dule’s i’ this bonnet o’ mine: 

My ribbins’ll never be reet; 

Here, Mally, aw’m like to be fine, 

For Jamie’ll be coinin’ to-neet; 

He met me i’ th’ lone t’ other day 

(Aw wur gooin’ for wayter to th’ well), 
An’ he begg’d that aw’d wed him i’ May, 
Bi th’ mass, if he’ll let me, aw will! 

When he took my two honds into his, 
Good Lord, heaw they trembled be¬ 
tween ! 

An’ aw durstn’t look up in his face, 

Becose on him seein’ my e’en. 

My cheek went as red as a rose; 

There’s never a mortal con tell 
Heaw happy aw felt,—for, thae knows, 

One couldn’t ha’ ax’d him theirsel’. 

But th’ tale wur at th’ end o’ my tung: 

To let it eawt wouldn’t be reet, 

For aw thought to seem forrud wur wrung, 
So aw towd him aw’d tell him to-neet. 
But, Mally, thae knows very weel, 

Though it isn’t a thing one should own, 
Iv aw’d tli’ pikein’ o’ th’ world to mysel’, 
Aw’d oather ha’ Jamie or noan. 

Neaw, Mally, aw’ve towd thae my mind ; 

What would to do iv it wur thee ? 

“Aw’d tak him just while lie’se inclined, 
An’ a farrantly bargain he’ll be; 

For Jamie’s as greadly a lad 
As ever stept eawt into th’ sun. 

Go, jump at thy chance, an’ get wed; 

An’ mak th’ best o’ th’ job when it’s 
done!” 

Eh, dear! but it’s time to be gwon: 

Aw shouldn’t like Jamie to wait; 






POEMS OF LOVE. 


167 


Aw connut for shame be too soon, 

An’ aw wouldn’t for th’ wuld be too 
late. 

A w’m o’ ov a tremble to th’ heel; 

Dost think ’at my bonnet ’ll do? 

“ Be off, lass,—tliae looks very weel; 

He wants noan o' th’ bonnet, thae foo!” 

Edwin Waugh. 

When the Kye comes IIa me. 

Gome, all ye jolly shepherds, 

That whistle through the glen, 

I’ll tell ye of a secret 
That courtiers dinna ken ; 

What is the greatest bliss 
That the tongue o’ man can name? 
’Tis to woo a bonny lassie 
When the kye comes hame, 

When the kye comes hame, 

When the kye comes hame, 

’Tween the gloaming and the mirk, 
When the kye comes hame. 

’Tis not beneath the coronet, 

Nor canopy of state, 

’Tis not on couch of velvet, 

Nor arbor of the great— 

’Tis beneath the spreading birk, 

In the glen without the name, 

Wi’ a bonny bonny lassie, 

When the kye comes hame. 

There the blackbird bigs his nest, 

For the mate he lo’es to see, 

And on the topmost bough 
Oh, a happy bird is he! 

Where he pours his melting ditty, 

And love is a’ the theme, 

And he’ll woo.his bonny lassie, 

When the kye comes hame. 

When the blewart bears a pearl, 

And the daisy turns a pea, 

And the bonny lucken gowan 
Has fauldit up her ee, 

Then the laverock, frae the blue lift, 
Drops down and thinks nae shame 
To woo his bonny lassie 
When the kye comes hame. 

See yonder pawkie shepherd, 

That lingers on the hill, 


His ewes are in the fauld, 

An’ his lambs are lying still, 

Yet lie downa gang to bed, 

For his heart is in a flame, 

To meet his bonny lassie 
When the kye comes hame. 

When the little wee bit heart 
Rises high in the breast, 

An’ the little wee bit starn 
Rises red in the east, 

Oh, there’s a joy sae dear 
That the heart can hardly frame, 

Wi’ a bonny bonny lassie, 

When the kye comes hame. 

Then since all Nature joins 
In this love without alloy, 

Oh, wha wad prove a traitor 
To Nature’s dearest joy? 

Or wha wad choose a crown, 

Wi’ its perils and its fame, 

And miss his bonny lassie, 

When the kye comes hame? 

James Hogg. 

Maud Muller. 

Maud Muller, on a summer’s day, 
Raked the meadow sweet with hay. 

Beneath her torn hat glow’d the wealth 
Of simple beauty and rustic health. 

Singing, she wrought, and her merry glee 
The mockbird echo’d from his tree. 

But, when she glanced to the far-off town, 
White from its hillslope looking down, 

The sweet song died, and a vague unrest 
And a nameless longing fill’d her breast,— 

A wish, that she hardly dared to own, 

For something better than she had known. 

The judge rode slowly down the lane, 
Smoothing his horse’s chestnut mane. 

He drew his bridle in the shade 
Of the apple trees to greet the maid, 

And ask a draught from the spring that 
flow’d 

Through the meadow across the road. 




168 


FIRESIDE ENCYCLOPAEDIA OF POETRY. 


She stoop’d where the cool spring bubbled 

up, 

And fill’d for him her small tin cup, 

And blush’d as she gave it, looking down 
On her feet so bare, and her tatter’d gown. 

“Thanks!” said the judge; “a sweeter 
draught 

From a fairer hand was never quaff’d.” 

He spoke of the grass and flowers and trees, 
Of the singing birds and the humming 
bees; 

Then talk’d of the haying, and wonder’d 
whether 

The cloud in the west would bring foul 
weather. 

And Maud forgot her brier-torn gown, 

And her graceful ankles bare and brown ; 

And listen’d, while a pleased surprise 
Look’d from her long-lash’d hazel eyes. 

At last, like one who for delay 
Seeks a vain excuse, he rode away. 

Maud Muller look’d and sigh’d: “Ah me! 
That I the judge’s bride might be! 

“ He would dress me up in silks so fine, 
And praise and toast me at his wine. 

“ My father should wear a broadcloth coat, 
My brother should sail a painted boat. 

“I’d dress my mother so grand and gay, 
And the baby should have a new toy each 
day. 

“And I’d feed the hungry and clothe the 
poor, 

And all should bless me who left our door.” 

The judge look’d back as he climb’d the 
hill, 

And saw Maud Muller standing still. 

“A form more fair, a face more sweet 
Ne’er hath it been my lot to meet. 

“And her modest answer and graceful air 
Show her wise and good as she is fair. 

“ Would she were mine, and I to-day, 

Like her a harvester of hay: 


“No doubtful balance of rights and wrongs, 
Nor weary lawyers with endless tongues. 

“ But low of cattle and song of birds, 

And health and quiet and loving words.” 

But he thought of his sisters proud and 
cold, 

And his mother vain of her rank and gold 

So, closing his heart, the judge rode on, 
And Maud was left in the field alone. 

But the lawyers smiled that afternoon, 
When he humm’d in court an old love- 
tune ; 

And the young girl mused beside the well, 
Till the rain on the unraked clover fell. 

He wedded a wife of richest dower, 

Who lived for fashion, as he for power. 

Yet oft, in his marble hearth’s bright glow, 
He watch’d a picture come and go; 

And sweet Maud Muller’s hazel eyes 
Look’d out in their innocent surprise. 

Oft, when the wine in his glass was red, 
He long’d for the wayside well instead; 

And closed his eyes on his garnish’d rooms. 
To dream of meadows and clover-blooms. 

And the proud man sigh’d, with a secret 
pain, 

“ Ah, that I were free again !— 

“ Free as when I rode that day, 

Where the barefoot maiden raked her 
hay.” 

She wedded a man unlearn’d and poor, 
And many children play’d round her 
door. 

But care and sorrow, and childbirth pain, 
Left their traces on heart and brain. 

And oft, when the summer sun shone hot 
On the new-mown hay in the meadow lot. 

And she heard the little spring brook fall 
Over the roadside, through the wall, 

In the shade of the apple tree again 
She saw a rider draw his rein. 








POEMS OF LOVE. 


109 


And. gazing down with timid grace, 

She felt his pleased eyes read her face. 

Sometimes her narrow kitchen walls 
Stretch’d away into stately halls; 

The weary wheel to a spinnet turn’d, 

The tallow candle an astral burn’d, 

And for him who sat by the chimney lug, 
Dozing and grumbling o’er pipe and mug, 

A manly form at her side she saw, 

And joy was duty and love was law. 

Then she took up her burden of life again, 
Saying only, “ It might have been.” 

Alas for maiden, alas forjudge, 

For rich repiner and household drudge! 

God pity them both ! and pity us all, 

Who vainly the dreams of youth recall. 

For of all sad words of tongue or pen, 

The saddest are these: “ It might have 
been!” 

Ah, well! for us all some sweet hope lies 
Deeply buried from human eyes ; 

And, in the hereafter, angels may 
Roll the stone from its grave away! 

John Greenleaf Whittier. 


The Power of Love. 

Hear ye, ladies that despise 
What the mighty Love has done; 
Fear examples and be wise : 

Fair Calisto was a nun : 

Leda, sailing on a stream, 

To deceive the hopes of man, 

Love accounting but a dream, 

Doted on a silver swan ; 

Danae in a brazen tower, 

Where no love was, loved a shower. 

Hear ye, ladies that are coy, 

"What the mighty Love can do ; 
Fear the fierceness of the boy; 

The chaste moon he makes to woo ; 
Vesta, kindling holy fires, 

Circled round about with spies, 
Never dreaming loose desires, 

Doting at the altar dies; 


Ilion, in a short hour, higher 
He can build, and once more fire. 

Beaumont and Fletcher 

The Prookside. 

I wander’d by the brookside, 

I wander’d by the mill; 

I could not hear the brook flow, 

The noisy wheel was still: 

There was no burr of grasshopper, 
No chirp of any bird ; 

But the beating of my own heart 
Was all the sound I heard. 

I sat beneath the elm tree, 

I watch’d the long, long shade, 

And as it grew still longer 
I did not feel afraid ; 

For I listen’d for a footfall, 

I listen’d for a word: 

But the beating of my own heart 
Was all the sound I heard. 

He came not—no, he came not,— 
The night came on alone,— 

The little stars sat one by one, 

Each on his golden throne ; 

The evening air pass’d by my cheek, 
The leaves above were stirr’d ; 

But the beating of my own heart 
Was all the sound I heard. 

Fast, silent tears were flowing, 

When something stood behind ; 

A hand was on my shoulder, 

I knew its touch was kind ; 

It drew me nearer, nearer— 

We did not speak one word ; 

But the beating of our own hearts 
Was all the sound we heard. 

Richard Monckton Milnes 
(Lord Houghton). 

THE SHEPHERD'S RESOLUTION. 

Shall I, wasting in despair, 

Die because a woman’s fair ? 

Or make pale my cheeks with care 

’Cause another’s rosy are? 

Be she fairer than the day 

Or the flowery meads of May, 

If she be not so to me 
What care I how fair she be? 






170 


FIRESIDE ENCYCLOPAEDIA OF POETRY. 


Shall my foolish heart be pined 
’Cause I see a woman kind ; 

Or a well-disposed nature 
Joined to a lovely feature? 

Be she meeker, kinder than 
Turtle-dove or pelican, 

If she be not so to me 
What care I how kind she be? 

Shall a woman’s virtues move 
Me to perish for her love? 

Or her merit’s value known 
Make me quite forget my own ? 

Be she with that goodness blest, 

Which may gain her name of Best; 

If she be not such to me, 

What care I how good she be? 

’Cause her fortunes seem too high, 

Shall I play the fool and die? 

Those that bear a noble mind 
Where they want of riches find, 

Think what with them they would do 
That without them dare to woo; 

And unless that mind I see, 

What care I how great she be? 

Great or good, or kind or fair, 

I will ne’er the more despair; 

If she love me, this believe, 

I will die ere she shall grieve; 

If she slight me when I woo, 

I can scorn and bid her go; 

For if she be not for me, 

What care I for whom she be? 

George Wither. 

Sonnet. 

Since there’s no help, come, let us kiss i 
and part,— 

Nay, I have done, you get no more of 
me, 

And I am glad, yea, glad with all my j 
heart, 

That thus so clearly I myself can free ; j 
Shake hands for ever, cancel all our vows, 
And, when we meet at any time again, 

Be it not seen in either of our brows, 

That we one jot of former love retain. ! 
Now, at the last gasji of Love’s latest 
breath, 

When, bis pulse failing, Passion speech¬ 
less lies, 


When Faith is kneeling by his bed of 
death, 

And Innocence is closing up his eyes, 
Now, if thou wouldst, when all have given 
him over, 

From death to life thou mightst him yet 
recover. 

Michael Drayton. 

Song. 

Day, in melting purple dying, 

Blossoms all around me sighing, 
Fragrance, from the lilies straying, 
Zephyr, with my ringlets playing, 

Ye but waken my distress: 

I am sick of loneliness. 

Thou to whom I love to hearken, 

Come, ere night around me darken; 
Though thy softness but deceive me, 

Say thou’rt true, and I’ll believe thee ; 
Veil, if ill, thy soul’s intent! 

Let me think it innocent 1 

Save thy toiling, spare thy treasure : 

All I ask is friendship’s pleasure : 

Let the shining ore lie darkling, 

Bring no gem in lustre sparkling ; 

Gifts and gold are naught to me . 
I would only look on thee! 

Tell to thee the high-wrought feeling, 
Ecstasy but in revealing ; 

Paint to thee the deep sensation, 
Rapture in participation, 

Yet but torture, if comprest 
In a lone unfriended breast. 

Absent still? Ah! come and bless me! 
Let these eyes again caress thee ; 

Once, in caution, I could fly thee: 

Now, I nothing could deny thee : 

In a look if death there be, 

Come and I will gaze on thee ! 

Maria Brooks. 


The Banks o’ Doon. 

Ye banks and braes o’ bonnie Doon, 
How can ye bloom sae fresh and fair ? 
How can ye chant, ye little birds, 

And I sae weary fu’ o’ care! 







POEMS OF LOVE. 


171 


Thou’ll break my heart, thou warb¬ 
ling bird, 

That wantons thro’ the flowering 
thorn: 

Thou minds me o’ departed joys, 
Departed never to return. 

Aft hae I roved by bonnie Doon, 

To see the rose and woodbine 
twine; 

And ilka bird sang o’ its luve, 

And fondly sae # did I o’ mine ; 

Wi’ lightsome heart I pu’d a rose, 
Fu’ sweet upon its thorny tree ! 

And my fause luver staw my rose, 
But ah! he left the thorn wi’ 
me. 

Robert Burns. 

Florence Vane. 

I loved thee long and dearly, 
Florence Vane; 

My life’s bright dream and early 
Hath come again; 

I renew in my fond vision 
My heart’s dear pain, 

My hopes and thy derision, 

Florence Vane! 

The ruin, lone and hoary, 

The ruin old, 

Where thou didst hark my story, 

At even told, 

That spot, the hues elysian 
Of sky and plain 

I treasure in my vision, 

Florence Vane! 

Thou wast lovelier than the roses 
In their prime; 

Thy voice excell’d the closes 
Of sweetest rhyme; 

Thy heart was as a river 
Without a main, 

Would I had loved thee never, 
Florence Vane. 

But fairest, coldest wonder! 

Thy glorious clay 

Lietli the green sod under; 

Ala3 the day! 


And it boots not to remember 
Thy disdain, 

To quicken love’s pale ember, 
Florence Vane! 

The lilies of the valley 

By young graves weep, 

The daisies love to dally 

Where maidens sleep. 

May their bloom, in beauty vying, 
Never wane 

Where thine earthly part is lying, 
Florence Vane. 

Philip Pendleton Cooke. 

I Prithee send me back my 
Heart. 

I prithee send me back my heart, 

Since I cannot have thine, 

For if from yours you will not part. 
Why, then, shouldst thou have mine? 

Yet now I think on’t, let it lie; 

To find it were in vain; 

For thou’st a thief in either eye 
Would steal it back again. 

Why should two hearts in one breast lie, 
And yet not lodge together? 

O Love! where is thy sympathy, 

If thus our breasts thou sever? 

But love is such a mystery, 

I cannot find it out; 

For when I think I’m best resolved, 

I then am in most doubt. 

Then farewell care, and farewell woe, 

I will no longer pine; 

For I’ll believe I have her heart, 

As much as she has mine. 

Sir John Suckling. 

The Nun. 

If you become a nun, dear, 

A friar I will be; 

In any cell you run, dear, 

Pray look behind for me. 

The roses all turn pale, too; 

The doves all take the veil, too: 

The blind will see the show : 




172 


FIRESIDE ENCYCLOPAEDIA OF POETRY. 


What! you become a nun, my dear? 

I’ll not believe it, no ! 

If you become a nun, dear, 

The bishop Love will be ; 

The Cupids every one, dear, 

Will chant, “ We trust in thee!” 

The incense will go sighing, 

The candles fall a-dying, 

The water turn to wine : 

What! you go take the vows, my dear? 
You may—but they’ll be mine. 

Leigh Hunt. 

Siie is not Fair to Outward 
View. 

She is not fair to outward view 
As many maidens be; 

Her loveliness I never knew 
Until she smiled on me. 

Oh then I saw her eye was bright, 

4 well of love, a spring of light. 

But now her looks are coy and cold, 

To mine they ne’er reply, 

And yet I oease not to behold 
The love-light in her eye: 

Her very frowns are fairer far 
Than smiles of other maidens are. 

Hartley Coleridge. 

Sonnet. 

Time wasteth years, and months, and 
hours; 

Time doth consume fame, honor, wit, 
and strength; 

Time kills the greenest herbs and sweetest 
flowers; 

Time wears out Youth and Beauty’s 
looks at length; 

Time doth convey to ground both foe 
and friend, 

And each thing else but Love, which 
hath no end. 

Time rnaketh every tree to die and rot; 
Time turneth oft our pleasure into 
pain; 

Time causeth wars and wrongs to be for¬ 
got; 

Time clears the sky which first hung full 
of rain; 


Time makes an end of all humane 
desire, 

But only this which sets my heart on 
fire. 

Time turneth into naught each princely 
state; 

' Time brings a flood from new-resolved 
snow; 

Time calms the sea where tempest was of 
late; 

Time eats whate’er the moon can see 
below: 

And yet no time prevails in my be¬ 
hoof, 

Nor any time can make me cease to 
love! 

Thomas Watson. 


The Awakening of Endymion. 

Loxe upon a mountain, the pine trees 
wailing round him, 

Lone upon a mountain the Grecian youth 
is laid; 

Sleep, mystic sleep, for many a year has 
bound him, 

Yet his beauty, like a statue’s, pale and 
fair, is undecay’d. 

When will he awaken ? 

When will he awaken ? a loud voice hath 
been crying, 

Night after night, and the cry has been 
in vain ; 

Winds, woods, and waves found echoes for 
replying, 

But the tones of the beloved one were 
never heard again. 

When will he awaken ? 

Asked the midnight’s silver queen. 

Never mortal eye has look’d upon his 
sleeping; 

Parents, kindred, comrades, have mourn’d 
for him as dead; 

By day the gather’d clouds have had him 
in their keeping, 

And at night the solemn shadows lound 
his rest are shed. 

When will he awaken ? 





POEMS OF LOVE. 


Long has been the cry of faithful love’s 
imploring; 

Long has hope been watching with soft 
eyes fix’d above; 

When will the fates, the life of life restor¬ 
ing, 

Own themselves vanquish’d by much- 
enduring love? 

When will he awaken ? 

Asks tiie midnight’s weary queen. 

Beautiful the sleep that she has watch’d 
untiring, 

Lighted up with visions from yonder ra¬ 
diant sky, 

Full of an immortal’s glorious inspiring, 

Soften’d by the woman’s meek and lov¬ 
ing sigh. 

When will he awaken ? 

He has been dreaming of old heroic 
stories, 

And the poet’s passionate world has 
enter’d in his soul; 

He has grown conscious of life’s ancestral 
glories, 

When sages and when kings first upheld 
the mind’s control. 

When will he awaken ? 

Asks the midnight’s* stately queen. 

Lo, the appointed midnight! the present 1 
hour is fated! 

It is Endymion’s planet that rises on the | 
air, 

How long, how tenderly his goddess-love 
has waited, 

Waited with a love too mighty for 
despair! 

Soon he will awaken. 

Soft amid the pines is a sound as if of sing- j 
in°* 

Tones that seem the lute’s from the 
breathing flowers depai't; 

Not a wind that wanders o’er Mount Latmos 
but is bringing 

Music that is murmur’d from nature’s 
inmost heart. 

Soon he will awaken 

To his and midnight’s queen ! 


178 


Lovely is the green earth,—she knows the 
hour is holy; 

Starry are the heavens, lit with eternal 

joy; 

Light like their own is dawning sweet and 
slowly 

O’er the fair and sculptured forehead of 
that yet dreaming boy. 

Soon he will awaken ! 

Red as the red rose toward the morning 
turning, 

Warms the youth’s lip to the watcher’s 
near his own; 

While the dark eyes open, bright, intense, 
and burning 

With a life more glorious than, ere they 
closed, was known. 

Yes, he has awaken’d 

For the midnight’s happy queen ! 

What is this old history, but a lesson 
given, 

How true love still conquers by the 
deep strength of truth— 

How all the impulses, whose native home 
is heaven, 

Sanctify the visions of hope, and faith, 
and youth ? 

’Tis for such they waken ! 

When every worldly thought is utterly for¬ 
saken, 

Comes the starry midnight, felt by life’s 
gifted few; 

Then will the spirit from its earthly sleep 
awaken 

To a being more intense, more spiritual, 
and true. 

So doth the soul awaken, 

Like that youth to night’s fair queen ! 

L^etitia Elizabeth Landon Maclean. 


A Pastoral. 

My time, O ye Muses, was happily spent, 

When Phoebe went with me wherever I 
went; 

Ten thousand sweet pleasures I felt in my 
breast; 

Sure never fond shepherd like Colin was 
blest. 











174 


FIRESIDE ENCYCLOPAEDIA OF POETRY. 


But now she is gone, and has left me be¬ 
hind, 

What a marvellous change on a sudden I 
find! 

When things were as fine as could possibly 
be, 

I thought ’twas the spring; but, alas! it was 
she. 

With such a companion, to tend a few 
sheep, 

To rise up and play, or to lie down and 
sleep, 

I was so good-humor’d, so cheerful and gay, 

My heart was as light as a feather all day. 

But now I so cross and so peevish am 
grown, 

So strangely uneasy as never was known. 

My fair one is gone, and my joys are all 
drown’d, 

And my heart—I am sure it weighs more 
than a pound. 

The fountain that wont to run sweetly 
along, 

And dance to soft murmurs the pebbles 
among; 

Thou know’st, little Cupid, if Phoebe were 
there, 

Twas pleasure to look at, ’twas music to 
hear, 

But now she is absent, I walk by its side, 

And still as it murmurs do nothing but 
chide. 

Must you be so cheerful while I go in 
pain? 

Peace there with your bubbling, and hear 
me complain. 

When my lambkins around me would 
oftentimes play, 

And when Phoebe and I were as joyful as 
they, 

How pleasant their sporting, how happy 
the time, 

When spring, love, and beauty were all in 
their prime? 

But now in their frolics when by me they 
pass, 

I fling at their fleeces a handful of grass : 

Be still, then I cry; for it makes me quite 
mad, 

To see you so merry while I am so sad. 


My dog I was ever well pleased to see 

Come wagging his tail at my fair one and 
me: 

And Phoebe was pleased too, and to my dog 
said, 

“Come hither, poor fellow;” and patted his 
head. 

But now, when he’s fawning, I with a sour 
look 

Cry, Sirrah! and give him a blow with my 
crook. 

And I’ll give him another; for why should 
not Tray 

Be as dull as his master, when Phoebe’s 
away ? 

When walking with Phoebe, what sights 
have I seen! 

How fair was the flower, how fresh was the 
green! 

What a lovely appearance the trees and 
the shade, 

! The corn-fields and hedges, and every¬ 
thing made! 

But now she has left me, though all are 
still there, 

They none of them now so delightful appear: 

’Twas naught but the magic, I find, of her 
eyes, 

Made so many beautiful prospects arise. 

Sweet music went with us both all the wood 
through, 

The lark, linnet, throstle and nightingale 
too; 

Winds over us whisper’d, flocks by us did 
bleat, 

And chirp! went the grasshopper under our 
feet. 

But now she is absent, though still they 
sing on, 

The woods are but lonely, the melody’s 
gone: 

Her voice in the concert, as now I have 
found, 

Gave everything else its agreeable sound. 

Rose, what is become of thy delicate hue? 

And where is the violet’s beautiful blue? 

Does aught of its sweetness the blossom 
beguile? 

That meadow, those daisies, why do they 
not smile ? 














POEMS OF LOVE. 


173 


Ah! rivals, I see what it was that you 
dress’d 

And made yourselves fine for—a place in 
her breast; 

You put on your colors to pleasure her 
eye, 

To be pluck’d by her hand, on her bosom 
to die. 

How slowly Time creeps, till my Phoebe 
return! 

While amidst the soft zephyr’s cool breezes 
I burn! 

Methinks if I knew whereabouts he would 
tread, 

I could breathe on his wings, and ’twould 
melt down the lead. 

Fly swifter, ye minutes, bring hither my 
dear, 

And rest so much longer for’t when she is 
here. 

Ah, Colin !*old Time is full of delay, 

Nor will budge one foot faster for all thou 
canst say. 

Will no pitying power that hears me com¬ 
plain, 

Or cure my disquiet or soften my pain? 

To be cured thou must, Colin, thy passion 
remove; 

But what swain is so silly to live without 
love? 

No, deity, bid the dear nymph to return, 

For ne’er was poor shepherd so sadly for¬ 
lorn. 

Ah! what shall I do? I shall die with 
despair! 

Take heed, all ye swains, how ye part with 
your fair. 

John Byrom. 

William and Margaret. 

’Twas at the silent, solemn hour, 

When night and morning meet; 

In glided Margaret’s grimly ghost, 

And stood at William’s feet. 

Her face was like an April morn, 

Clad in a wintry cloud; 

And clay-cold was her lily hand, 

That held her sable shroud. 


So shall the fairest face appear, 

When youth and years are flown: 

Such is the robe that kings must wear, 
When death has reft their crown. 

Her bloom was like the springing flower. 
That sips the silver dew ; 

The rose was budded in her cheek, 

Just opening to the view. 

But love had, like the canker-worm, 
Consumed her early prime; 

The rose grew pale, and left her cheek—- 
She died before her time. 

“ Awake,” she cried, “thy true love calls. 
Come from her midnight grave; 

Now let thy pity hear the maid, 

Thy love refused to save. 

“This is the dark and dreary hour, 

When injured ghosts complain ; 

When yawning graves give up their dead, 
To haunt the faithless swain. 

“ Bethink thee, William, of thy fault, 
Thy pledge and broken oath ! 

And give me back my maiden vow. 

And give me back my troth. 

“ Why did you promise love to me, 

And not that promise keep ? 

Why did you swear my eyes were bright, 
Yet leave those eyes to weep? 

“ How could you say my face was fair, 
And yet that face forsake ? 

How could you win my virgin heart, 

Yet leave that heart to break? 

“ Why did you say my lip was sweet, 

And made the scarlet pale? 

And why did I, young witless maid! 
Believe the flatt’ring tale? 

“ That face, alas! no more is fair, 

Those lips no longer red; 

Dark are my eyes now closed in death, 
And every charm is fled. 

“ The hungry worm my sister is; 

This winding-sheet I wear: 

And cold and weary lasts our night, 

Till that last morn appear. 






176 


FIRESIDE ENCYCLOPAEDIA OF POETRY 


u But hark! the cock has warn’d me hence; 
A long and last adieu ! 

Come see, false man, how low she lies, 
Who died for love of you.” 

The lark sung loud ; the morning smiled 
With beams of rosy red ; 

Pale William quaked in every limb, 

And raving left his bed. 

He hied him to the fatal place, 

Where Margaret’s body lay ; 

And stretch’d him on the green grass turf, 
That wrapt her breathless clay. 

And thrice he call’d on Margaret’s name, 
And thrice he wept full sore; 

Then laid his cheek to her cold grave, 

And word spake never more. 

David Mallet. 

Where shall the lover rest? 

Where shall the lover rest 
Whom the Fates sever 
From his true maiden’s breast 
Parted for ever? 

Where, through groves deep and high 
Sounds the far billow, 

Where early violets die 
Under the willow. 

Eleu loro 

Soft shall be his pillow. 

There, through the summer day 
Cool streams are laving, 

There, while the tempests sway, 

Scarce are boughs waving; 

There thy rest slialt thou take, 

Parted for ever, 

Never again to wake 
Never, oh never! 

Eleu loro 
Never, oh never! 

Where shall the traitor rest, 

He, the deceiver, 

Who could win maiden’s breast, 

Ruin, and leave her? 

In the lost battle, 

Borne down by the flying, 


Where mingles war’s rattle 
With groans of the dying ; 

Eleu loro 

There shall he be lying. 

Her wing shall the eagle flap 
O’er the false-hearted; 

His warm blood the wolf shall lap 
Ere life be parted : 

Shame and dishonor sit 
By his grave ever; 

Blessing shall hallow it 
Never, oh never! 

Eleu loro 
Never, oh never! 

Sir Walter Scorn 


The Outlaw. 

Oh, Brignall banks are wild and fair, 
And Greta woods are greei^ 

S And you may gather garlands there 
Would grace a summer queen. 

And as I rode by Dalton Hall 
Beneath the turrets high, 

A Maiden on the castle-wall 
Was singing merrily: 

“Oh Brignall banks are fresh and fair, 
And Greta woods are green; 

I’d rather rove with Edmund there 
Than reign our English queen.” 

“If, Maiden, thou wouldst wend with me 
To leave both tower and town, 

Thou first must guess what life lead we 
That dwell by dale and down. 

And if thou canst that riddle read, 

As read full well you may, 

Then to the greenwood shalt thou speed 
As blithe as Queen of May.” 

Yet sung she “ Brignall banks are fair. 
And Greta woods are green ; 

I’d rather rove with Edmund there 
Than reign our English queen. 

“ I read you by your bugle-horn 
And by your palfrey good, 

I read you for a Ranger sworn 
To keep the king’s greenwood.” 

“A Ranger, lady, winds his horn, 

And ’tis at peep of light; 






POEMS OF LOVE. 


177 


His blast is heard at merry morn, 

And mine at dead of night.” 

Yet sung she “ Brignall banks are fair, 
And Greta woods are gay; 

I would I were with Edmund there 
To reign his Queen of May! 

“ With burnish’d brand and musketoon 
So gallantly you come, 

I read you for a bold Dragoon, 

That lists the tuck of drum.” 

“ I list no more the tuck of drum, 

No more the trumpet hear; 

But when the beetle sounds his hum 
My comrades take the spear. 

And oh! though Brignall banks be fair 
And Greta woods be gay, 

Yet mickle must the maiden dare 
Would reign my Queen of May. 

“ Maiden ! a nameless life I lead, 

A nameless death I’ll die! 

The fiend whose lantern lights the mead 
Were better mate than I! 

And when I’m with my comrades met 
Beneath the greenwood bough, 

What once we were we all forget, 

Nor think what we are now.” 

Yet Brignall banks are fresh and fair, 
And Greta woods are green, 

And you may gather garlands there 
Would grace a summer queen. 

Sir Walter Scott. 

Bedouin Song. 

From the desert I come to thee, 

On a stallion shod with fire ; 

And the winds are left behind 
In the speed of my desire. 

Under thy window I stand, 

And the midnight hears my cry : 

I love thee, I love but thee, 

With a love that shall not die 
Till the sun grows cold, 

And the stars are old, 

And the leaves of the Judgment 
Book unfold ! 

Look from thy window, and see 
My passion and my pain; 

I lie on the sands below, 

And I faint in thy disdain. 

12 


Let the night-winds touch thy brow 
With the heat of my burning sigh, 
And melt thee to hear the vow 
Of a love that shall not die 
Till the sun grows cold, 

And the stars are old, 

And the leaves of the Judgment 
Book unfold! 

My steps are nightly driven, 

By the fever in my breast, 

To hear from thy lattice breathed 
The word that shall give me rest. 
Open the door of thy heart, 

And open thy chamber door, 

And my kisses shall teach thy lips 
The love that shall fade no more 
Till the sun grows cold, 

And the stars are old, 

And the leaves of the Judgment 
Book unfold! 

Bayard Taylor. 

Come into the Garden, Maud. 

Come into the garden, Maud, 

For the black bat, night, has flown! 
Come into the garden, Maud, 

I am here at the gate alone ; 

And the woodbine spices are wafted abroad, 
And the musk of the rose is blown. 

For a breeze of morning moves, 

And the planet of Love is on high, 
Beginning to faint in the light that she 
loves, 

On a bed of daffodil sky,— 

To faint in the light of the sun she loves, 
To faint in his light, and to die. 

All night have the roses heard 
The flute, violin, bassoon ; 

All night has the casement jessamine stirr’d 
To the dancers dancing in tune,— 

Till a silence fell with the waking bird, 
And a hush with the setting moon. 

I said to the lily, “ There is but one 
With whom she has heart to be gay. 
When will the dancers leave her alone ? 

She is weary of dance and play.” 

Now half to the setting moon are gone. 
And half to the rising day; 







378 


FIRESIDE ENCYCLOPAEDIA OF POETRY. 


Low on the sand and loud on the stone 
The last wheel echoes away. 

I said to the rose, “ The brief night goes 
' In babble and revel and wine. 

0 young lord-lover, what sighs are those 
For one that will never be thine? 

But mine, but mine,” so I sware to the rose, 
“ For ever and ever mine !” 

And the soul of the rose went into my 
blood, 

As the music clash’d in the hall; 

And long by the garden lake I stood, 

For I heard your rivulet fall 
From the lake to the meadow and on to 
the wood, 

Our wood, that is dearer than all; 

From the meadow your walks have left so 
sweet 

That whenever a March wind sighs, 

He sets the jewel-print of your feet 
In violets blue as your eyes, 

To the woody hollows in which we meet, 
And the valleys of Paradise. 

The slender acacia would not shake 
One long milk-bloom on the tree; 

The white lake-blossom fell into the lake, 
As the pimpernel dozed on the lea; 

But the rose was awake all night for your 
sake, 

Knowing your promise to me ; 

The lilies and roses were all awake, 

They sigh’d for the dawn and thee. 

Queen rose of the rosebud garden of girls, 
Come hither, the dances are done, 

In gloss of satin and glimmer of pearls, 
Queen lily and rose in one; 

Shine out, little head, sunning over with 
. curls, 

To the flowers, and be their sun. 

There has fallen a splendid tear 

From the passion-flower at the gate. 

She is coming, my dove, my dear ; 

She is coming, my life, my fate ! 

The red rose cries, “ She is near, she is 
near 

And the white rose weeps, “She is late;” 
The larkspur listens, “ I hear, I hear;” 
And the lily whispers, “ I wait.” 


She is coming, my own, my sweet! 

Were it ever so airy a tread, 

My heart would hear her and beat, 

Were it earth in an earthy bed ; 

My dust would hear her and beat, 

Had I lain for a century dead ; 

Would startle and tremble under her feet, 
And blossom in purple and red. 

Alfred Tennysoh. 

The Call. 

Awake thee, my lady-love, 

Wake thee and rise; 

The sun through the bower peeps 
Into thine eyes. 

Behold how the early lark 
Springs from the corn ; 

Hark, hark ! how the flow r er-bird 
Winds her wee horn. 

The swallow’s glad shriek is heard 
All through the air, 

The stock-dove is murmuring 
Loud as she dare. 

Apollo’s wing’d bugleman 
Cannot contain, 

But peals his loud trumpet-call 
Once and again. 

Then wake thee, my lady-love, 

Bird of my bower, 

The sweetest and sleepiest 
Bird at this hour. 

George Darley. 


Dirge. 

If thou wilt ease thine heart 
Of love, and all its smart,— 

Then sleep, dear, sleep! 

And not a sorrow 
Hang any tear on your eyelashes; 

Lie still and deep, 

Sad soul, until the sea-wave washes 
The rim o’ the sun to-morrow, 

In eastern sky. 

But wilt thou cure thine heart 
Of love, and all its smart— 

Then die, dear, die I 










POEMS OF -LOVE. 


179 


’Tis deeper, sweeter, 

Than on a rose-bank to lie dreaming 
With folded eye; 

And then alone, amid the beaming 
Of Love’s stars, thou’lt meet her 
In eastern sky. 

Thomas Lovell Bkddoes. 


Diaphenia. 

Diaphenia like the daffodowndilly, 
White as the sun, fair as the lily, 
Heigh ho, how I do love thee! 

I do love thee as my lambs 
Are beloved of their dams; 

How blest were I if thou wouldst prove me. 

Diaphenia like the spreading roses, 
That in thy sweets all sweets encloses, 
Fair sweet, how I do love thee ! 

I do love thee as each flower 
Loves the sun’s life-giving power; 

For dead, thy breath to life might move me. 

Diaphenia like to all things blessed 
When all the praises are expressed, 
Dear joy, how I do love thee! 

As the birds do love the spring, 

Or the bees their careful king : 

Then in requite, sweet virgin, love me! 

Henry Constable. 


Castara. 

Like the violet, which alone 
Prospers in some happy shade, 

My Castara lives unknown, 

To no ruder eye betray’d ; 

For she’s to herself untrue 

Who delights i’ the public view. 

Such is her beauty as no arts 

Have enrich’d with borrow’d grace. 

Her high birth no pride imparts, 

For she blushes in her place. 

Folly boasts a glorious blood,— 

She is noblest being good. 

Cautious,.she knew never yet 
Wh at a wanton courtship meant; 

Nor speaks loud to boast her wit, 

In her silence eloquent 


Of herself survey she takes, 

But ’tween men no difference makes. 

She obeys with speedy will 

Her grave parents’ wise commands; 
And so innocent, that ill 
She nor acts, nor understands. 
Women’s feet run still astray 
If to ill they know the way. 

She sails by that rock, the court, 
Where oft virtue splits her mast; 
And retiredness thinks the port, 

Where her fame may anchor cast. 
Virtue safely cannot sit 
Where vice is enthroned for wit. 

She holds that day’s pleasure best 
Where sin waits not on delight; 
Without mask, or ball, or feast, 
Sweetly spends a winter’s night. 
O’er that darkness whence is thrust 
Prayer and sleep, oft governs lust. 

She her throne makes reason climb, 
While wild passions captive lie; 

And each article of time, 

Her pure thoughts to heaven fly; 

All her vows religious be, 

And she vows her love to me. 

William IIabington. 

Logan Braes. 

By Logan streams that rin sae deep, 
Fu’ aft wi’ glee I’ve herded sheep; 
Herded sheep and gathered slaes, 

Wi’ my dear lad on Logan braes. 

But wae’s my heart, thae days are gane, 
And I wi’ grief may herd alane, 

While my dear lad maun face his faes, 
Far, far frae me and Logan braes. 

Nae mair at Logan Kirk will he 
Atween the preachings meet wi’ me; 
Meet wi’ me, or when it’s mirk, 

Convoy me hame frae Logan Kirk. 

I weel may sing thae days are gane: 
Frae kirk and fair I come alane, 

While my dear lad maun face his faes, 
Far, far frae me and Logan braes. 

At e’en, when hope is amaist gane. 

I dauner out and sit alane; 










FIRESIDE ENCYCLOPEDIA OF POETRY. 


180 


Sit alane beneath the tree 
Where aft he kept his tryst wi’ me. 

Oh ! could I see thae days again, 

My lover skaithless, and my ain ! 
Beloved by friends, revered by faes, 
We’d live in bliss on Logan braes. 

John Mayne. 


Sonnet. 

Alexis, here she stay’d; among these 
pines, 

Sweet hermitress, she did alone repair; 

Here did she spread the treasure of her 
hair, 

More rich than that brought from the Col- 
chian mines. 

She sate her by these musked eglantines, 

The happy place the print seems yet to 
bear; 

Her voice did sweeten here thy sugared 
lines, 

To which winds, trees, beasts, birds did 
lend their ear. 

Me here she first perceived, and here a 
morn 

Of bright carnations did o’erspread her 
face; 

Here did she sigh, here first my hopes were 
born, 

And I first got a pledge of promised grace: 
But, ah ! what served it to be happy so, 
Since passed pleasures double but new 
woe ? 

William Drummond of Hawthornden. 


Disdain Returned. 

He that loves a rosy cheek, 

Or a coral lip admires, 

Or from star-like eyes doth seek 
Fuel to maintain his fires,— 

As old Time makes these decay, 

So his flames must waste away. 

But a smooth and steadfast mind, 
Gentle thoughts and calm desires, 
Hearts with equal love combined, 
Kindle never-dying fires. 

Where these are not, I despise 
Lovely cheeks, or lips, or eyes. 


No tears, Celia, now shall win 
My resolved heart to return ; 

I have search’d thy soul within, 

And find naught but pride and scorn; 
I have learn’d thy arts, and now 
Can disdain as much as thou. 

Some power, in my revenge, convey 
That love to her I cast away. 

Thomas Carew. 

A UX IT ALIENS. 

At Paris it was, at the opera there;— 

And she look’d like a queen in a book 
that night, 

With the wreath of pearl in her raven 
hair, 

And the brooch on her breast so bright. 

Of all the operas that Verdi wrote, 

The best, to my taste, is the Trovatore; 
And Mario can soothe, with a tenor note, 
The souls in purgatory. 

The moon on the tower slept soft as snow; 
And who was not thrill’d in the stran¬ 
gest way, 

As we heard him sing, while the gas 
burn’d low, 

“ Non ti scordar di me ” f 

The emperor there, in his box of state, 
Look’d grave, as if he had just then 
seen 

The red flag wave from the city gate, 
Where his eagles in bronze had been. 

The empress, too, had a tear in her eye: 
You’d have said that her fancy had gone 
back again, 

For one moment, under the old blue sky, 
To the old glad life in Spain. 

Well, there in our front-row box we sat 
Together, my bride betroth’d and I; 

My gaze was fixed on my opera-hat, 

And hers on the stage hard by. 

And both were silent, and both were sad; 
Like a queen she lean’d on her full 
white arm, 

With that regal, indolent air she had, 

So confident of her charm 1 






POEMS OF LOVE. 


181 


I have not a doubt she was thinking then 
Of her former lord, good soul that he 
was, 

Who died the richest and roundest of 
men, 

The Marquis of Carabas. 

I hope that, to get to the kingdom of 
heaven, 

Through a needle’s eye he had not to 
pass; 

I wish him well, for the jointure given 
To my lady of Carabas. 

Meanwhile, I was thinking of my first 
love, 

As I had not been thinking of aught for 
years, 

Till over my eyes there began to move 
Something that felt like tears. 

I thought of the dress that she wore last 
time, 

When we stood ’neath the cypress trees to¬ 
gether, 

In that lost land, in that soft clime, 

In the crimson evening weather; 

Of that muslin dress (for the eve was 
hot), 

And her warm white neck in its golden 
chain, 

And her full, soft hair, just tied in a knot, 
And falling loose again , 

And the jasmine flower in her fair young 
breast, 

(Oh, the faint, sweet smell of that jasmine 
flower!) 

And the one bird singing alone to his nest, 
And the one star over the tower. 

I thought of our little quarrels and strife, 
And the letter that brought me back my 
ring; 

And it all seem’d then, in the waste of 
life, 

Such a very little thing! 

For I thought of her grave below the hill, 
Which the sentinel cypress tree stands 
over, 

And I thought, “ Were she only living 
still, 

How 1 could forgive her, and love her!” 


I And I swear, as I thought of her thus, in 
that hour, 

And of how, after all, old things were 
best, 

That I smelt the smell of that jasmine 
flower 

Which she used to wear in her breast. 

It smelt so faint, and it smelt so sweet, 

It made me creep, and it made me 
cold; 

Like the scent that steals from the crum¬ 
bling sheet 

Where a mummy is half unroll’d. 

And I turn’d and look’d: she was sitting 
there, 

In a dim box over the stage, and drest 

In that muslin dress, with that full, soft * 
hair, 

And that jasmine in her breast. 

I was here: and she was there : 

And the glittering horse-shoe curved be¬ 
tween, 

From my bride betroth’d, with her raven 
hair, 

And her sumptuous, scornful mien, 

To my early love, with her eyes downcast, 

And over her primrose face the shade. 

(In short, from the future back to the 
past 

There was but a step to be made.) 

To my early love from my future bride 

One moment I look’d. Then I stole to 
the door, 

I traversed the passage, and down at her 
side 

I was sitting, a moment more. 

My thinking of her, or the music’s strain, 

Or something which never will be ex- 
prest, 

Had brought her back from the grave 
again, 

With the jasmine in her breast. 

She is not dead, and she is not wed, 

But she loves me now, and she loved me 
then! 

And the very first word that her sweet 
lips said, 

My heart grew youthful again. 






182 


FIRESIDE ENCYCLOPAEDIA OE POETRY . 


The Marchioness there, of Carabas, 

She is wealthy, and young, and hand¬ 
some still, 

And but for her,—well, we’ll let that 
pass— 

She may marry whomever she will. 

But I will marry my own first love, 

With her primrose face, for old things 
are best, 

And the flower in her bosom, I prize it 
above 

The brooch in my lady’s breast. 

The world is fill’d with folly and sin, 

And love must cling where it can, I 
say, 

For beauty is easy enough to win, 

But one isn’t loved every day. 

And I think, in the lives of most women 1 
and men, 

There’s a moment when all would go 
smooth and even, 

If only the dead could find out when 
To come back and be forgiven. 

But oh, the smell of that jasmine flower! 

And oh, that music! and oh, the way 
That voice rang out from the donjon 
tower: 

Non ti scordar di me, 

Non ti scordar di me ! 

Robert Bulwer Lyttok. 

To Sigh, yet Feel no Pain. 

To sigh, yet feel no pain, 

To weep, yet scarce know why; 

To sport an hour with beauty’s chain, 
Then throw it idly by ; 

To kneel at many a shrine, 

Yet lay the heart on none ; 

To think all other charms divine, 

But those we just have won ; 

This is love, faithless love, 

Such as kindleth hearts that rove. 

To keep one sacred flame, 

Through life unchill’d, unmoved, 

To love in wintry age the same 
As first in youth we loved ; 

To feel that we adore, 

Ev’n to such fond excess, 


That, though the heart would break with 
more, 

It could not live with less ; 

This is love, faithful love, 

Such as saints might feel above. 

Thomas Moore. 

A Pastoral. 

Ox a hill there grows a flower, 

Fair befall the dainty sweet! 

By that flower there is a bower, 

Where the heavenly Muses meet. 

In that bower there is a chair, 

Fringed all about with gold, 

Where doth sit the fairest fair 
That ever eye did yet behold. 

It is Phillis, fair and bright, 

She that is the shepherds’ joy, 

She that Venus did despite, 

And did blind her little boy. 

This is she, the wise, the rich, 

That the world desires to see; 

This is ipsa quae, the which 
There is none but only she. 

Who would not this face admire ? 
Who would not this saint adore? 

Who would not this sight desire, 
Though he thought to see no more ? 

O fair eyes, yet let me see 

One good look, and I am gone: 

Look on me, for I am he, 

The poor silly Corvdon. 

Thou that art the shepherds’ queen, 
Look upon thy silly swain ; 

By thy comfort have been seen 
Dead men brought to life again. 

Nicholas Breton. 


The Silent Lover. 

Passions are likened best to floods and 
streams, 

The shallow murmur, but the deep are 
dumb ; 

So when affection yields discourse, it seems 
The bottom is but shallow whence they 
come; 










POEMS OF LOVE. 


183 


They that are rich in words must needs 
discover 

They are but poor in that which makes 
a lover. 

Wrong not, sweet mistress of my heart, 
The merit of true passion, 

With thinking that he feels no smart 
Who sues for no compassion. 

Since if my plaints were not t’ approve 
The conquest of thy beauty, 

It comes not from defect of love, 

But fear t’ exceed my duty. 

For, knowing that I sue to serve 
A saint of such perfection 
As all desire, but none deserve 
A place in her affection, 

I rather choose to want relief 
Than venture the revealing :— 

Where glory recommends the grief, 
Despair disdains the healing. 

Thus those desires that boil so high 
In any mortal lover, 

When reason cannot make them die, 
Discretion them must cover. 

Yet when discretion doth bereave 
The plaints that I should utter, 

Then your discretion may perceive 
That silence is a suitor. 

Silence in love bewrays more woe 
Than ivords, though ne’er so witty: 

A beggar that is dumb, you know, 

May challenge double pity. 

Then wrong not, dearest to my heart, 
My love, for secret passion : 

He smarteth most that hides his smart, 
And sues for no compassion. 

Sir Walter Raleigh. 

Tiie Groomsman to the Brides¬ 
maid. 

Every wedding, says the proverb, 
Makes another, soon or late ; 

Never yet was any marriage 
Enter'd in the book of fate, 

But the names were also written 
Of the patient pair that wait. 

Blessings, then, upon the morning 
When my friend, with fondest look, 


By the solemn rites’ permission, 

To his heart his true love took, 

And the destinies recorded 
Other two within their book. 

While the priest fulfill’d his office. 

Still the ground the lovers eyed, 

And the parents and the kinsmen 
Aim’d their glances at the bride ; 

But the groomsmen eyed the virgins 
Who were waiting at her side. 

Three there were that stood beside her ; 

One was dark, and one was fair; 

But nor fair nor dark the other, 

Save her Arab eyes and hair; 

Neither dark nor fair I call her, 

Yet she was the fairest there. 

While the groomsman—shall I own it? 

Yes to thee, and only thee— 

Gazed upon this dark-eyed maiden 
Who was fairest of the three, 

Thus he thought: “ How blest the bridal 
Where the bride were such as she!” 

Then I mused upon the adage, 

Till my wisdom was perplex’d, 

And I wonder’d, as the churchman 
Dwelt upon his holy text, 

Which of all who heard his lesson 
Should require the service next. 

Whose will be the next occasion 
For the flowers, the feast, the wine? 
Thine, perchance, my dearest lady; 

Or, who knows?—it may be mine, 
What if ’twere—forgive the fancy— 
What if ’twere—both mine and thine? 

Thomas William Parsons. 


Zara's Ear-Rings. 

My ear-rings! my ear-rings! they’ve 
dropp’d into the well, 

And what to say to Muga, I cannot, cannot 
. tell— 

’Twas thus, Granada’s fountain by, spoke 
Albuharez’ daughter:— 

The well is deep—far down they lie, be¬ 
neath the cold blue water; 






184 


FIRESIDE ENCYCLOPAEDIA OF POETRY. 


To me did Muga give them when he spake 
his sad farewell, 

And what to say when he comes back, 
alas! I cannot tell. 

My ear-rings ! my ear-rings !—they w T ere 
pearls in silver set, 

That, when my Moor was far away, I ne’er 
should him forget; 

That I ne’er to other tongues should list, 
nor smile on other’s tale, 

But remember he my lips had kiss’d, pure 
as those ear-rings pale. 

When he comes back, and hears that I 
have dropp’d them in the well, 

Oh, what will Muga think of me ?—I can¬ 
not, cannot tell! 

My ear-rings ! my ear-rings !—he’ll say 
they should have been, 

Not of pearl and of silver, but of gold 
and glittering sheen, 

Of jasper and of onyx, and of diamond 
shining clear, 

Changing to the changing light, with 
radiance insincere; 

That changeful mind unchanging gems are 
not befitting well, 

Thus will he think—and what to say, alas! 
I cannot tell. 

He’ll think when I to market went I 
loiter’d by the way ; 

He’ll think a willing ear I lent to all the 
lads might say; 

He’ll think some other lover’s hand, among 
my tresses noosed, 

From the ears where he had placed them 
my rings of pearl unloosed ; 

He’ll think when I was sporting so beside 
this marble well 

My pearls fell in—and what to say, alas ! 
I cannot tell. 

He’ll say I am a woman, and we are all 
the same; 

He’ll say I loved when he was here to 
whisper of his flame— 

But when he went to Tunis, my virgin 
troth had broken, 

And thought no move of Muca, and cared 
not for his token 


My ear-rings! my ear-rings! O luckless, 
luckless well,—- 

For what to say to Muga—alas! I cannot 
tell. 

I’ll tell the truth to Muga—and I hope he 
will believe"— 

That I thought of him at morning and 
thought of him at eve; 

That, musing on my lover, when down the 
sun was gone, 

His ear-rings in my hand I held, by the 
fountain all alone; 

And that my mind was o’er the sea, when 
from my hand they fell, 

And that deep his love lies in my heart, as 
they lie in the well. 

(From the Spanish.) 

John Gibson Lockhart. 


Look Out, Bright Eyes. 

Look out, bright eyes, and bless the air! 
Even in shadows you are fair. 

Shut-up beauty is like fire, 

That breaks out clearer still and higher. 
Though your beauty be confined, 

And soft Love a prisoner bound, 

Yet the beauty of your mind 
Neither check nor chain hath found. 
Look out nobly, then, and dare 
Even the fetters that you wear. 

Beaumont and Fletcher. 

What Love is Like. 

Love is like a lamb, and love is like a 
lion; 

Fly from love, he fights; fight, then does 
he fly on; 

Love is all on fire, and yet is ever freezing; 
Love is much in winning, yet is more in 
leesing. 1 

Love is ever sick, and yet is never dying; 
Love is ever true, and yet is ever lying ; 
Love does doat in liking, and is mad in 
loathing; 

Love indeed is any thing, yet indeed is 
nothing. 

1 losing. 

Thomas Middleton. 






POEMS OF LOVE. 


185 


Go, Lovely Rose. 

“ Go, lovely rose ! 

Tell her that wastes her time and me, 
That now she knows 

When I resemble her to thee, 

How sweet and fair she seems to be. 

“ Tell her that’s young, 

And shuns to have her graces spied, 
That hadst thou sprung 
In deserts, where no men abide, 

Thou must have uncommended died. 

“ Small is the worth 
Of beauty from the light retired: 

Bid her come forth, 

Suffer herself to be desired, 

And not blush so to be admired. 

“ Then die ! that she 
The common fate of all things rare 
May read in thee, 

How small a part of time they share 
That are so wondrous sweet and fair.” 

Edmund Waller. 

Music, when Soft Voices Die. 

Music, when soft voices die, 

Vibrates in the memory— 

Odors, when sweet violets sicken, 

Live within the sense they quicken. 

Rose-leaves, when the rose is dead, 

Are heap’d for the beloved’s bed; 

And so thy thoughts, when thou art 
gone, 

Love itself shall slumber on. 

Percy Bysshe Shelley. 

To his Mistress, the Queen of 
Bohemia. 

You meaner beauties of the night, 

That poorly satisfy our eyes 
More by your number than your light— 
You common people of the skies— 
What are you when the moon shall rise? 

You curious chanters of the wood, 

That warble forth dame Nature’s lays, 
Thinking your passions understood 


By your weak accents — what’s your 
praise 

When Philomel her voice shall raise? 

You violets that first appear, 

By your pure purple mantles known, 
Like the proud virgins of the year, 

As if the spring were all your own— 
What are you when the rose is blown? 

So when my mistress shall be seen 
In form and beauty of her mind; 

By virtue first, then choice, a queen— 

Tell me, if she were not design’d 
Th’ eclipse and glory of her kind ? 

Sir Henry Wotton. 

On a Girdle. 

That which her slender waist confined 
Shall now my joyful temples bind ; 

No monarch but would give his crown, 

His arms might do what this has done. 

It was my heaven’s extremest sphere, 

The pale which held that lovely deer: 

My joy, my grief, my hope, my love, 

Did all within this circle move. 

A narrow compass! and yet there 
Dwelt all that’s good, and all that’s 
fair. 

Give me but what this ribbon bound, 

Take all the rest the sun goes round! 

Edmund Waller. 

There is a Garden in her Face 

There is a garden in her face, 

Where roses and white lilies blow; 

A heavenly paradise is that place, 
Wherein all pleasant fruits do grow ; 
There cherries grow that none may buy, 
Till cherry-ripe themselves do cry. 

Those cherries fairly do enclose 
Of orient pearl a double row, 

Which when her lovely laughter shows, 
They look like rosebuds filled with 
snow; 

Yet them no peer nor prince may buy, 

Till cherry-ripe themselves do cry. 

Her eyes like angels watch them still. 

Her brows like bended bows do stand, 




186 


FIRESIDE ENCYCLOPAEDIA OF POETRY. 


Threatening with piercing frowns to kill 
All that approach with eye or hand 
These sacred cherries to come nigh, 

Till cherry-ripe themselves do cry. 

Richard Alison. 


Jenny Kissed Me. 

Jenny kiss’d me when we met, 

Jumping from the chair she sat in ; 

Time, you thief! who love to get 
Sweets into your list, put that in. 

Say I’m weary, say I’m sad ; 

Say that health and wealth have miss’d 
me; 

Say I’m growing old, but add— 

Jenny kiss’d me! 

Leigh Hunt. 

Allen-a-Dale. 

Allen-a-Dale has no fagot for burning, 

Allen-a-Dale has no furrow for turning, 

Allen-a-Dale has no fleece for the spinning, 

Yet Allen-a-Dale has red gold for the win¬ 
ning. 

Come, read me my riddle! come, hearken 
my tale! 

And tell me the craft of bold Allen-a-Dale. 

The Baron of Ravensworth prances in pride, 

And he views his domains upon Arkindale 
side, 

The mere for his net, and the land for his 
game, 

The chase for the wild, and the park for 
the tame; 

Yet the fish of the lake, and the deer of the 
vale, 

Are less free to Lord Dacre than Allen-a- 
Dale ! 

Allen-a-Dale was ne’er belted a knight, 

Though his spur be as sharp, and his blade 
be as bright; 

Allen-a-Dale is no baron or lord, 

Yet twenty tall yeomen will draw at his 
word; 

And the best of our nobles his bonnet will 
veil, 

Who at Rere-cross on Stanmore meets 
Allen-a-Dale. 


Allen-a-Dale to his wooing is come; 

The mother, she ask’d of his household 
and home: 

“ Though the castle of Richmond stand 
fair on the hill, 

My hall,” quoth bold Allen, “ shows gal- 
lanter still; 

’Tis the blue vault of heaven, with its 
crescent so pale, 

And with all its bright spangles!” said 
Allen-a-Dale. 

The father was steel, and the mother was 
stone; 

They lifted the latch, and they bade him 
be gone; 

But loud, on the morrow, their wail and 
their cry; 

He had laugh’d on the lass with his bonny 
black eye, 

And she fled to the forest to hear a love- 
tale, 

And the youth it was told by was Allen-a- 
Dale ! 

Sir Walter Scott. 


The Hea th this Might must be 
my Bed. 

The heath this night must be my bed, 

The bracken curtain for my head, 

My lullaby the warder’s tread, 

Far, far from love and thee, Mary; 
To-morrow eve, more stilly laid, 

My couch may be my bloody plaid, 

My vesper song thy wail, sweet maid ! 

It will not waken me, Mary! 

I may not, dare not, fancy now 
The grief that clouds thy lovely brow •, 

I dare not think upon thy vow, 

And all it promised me, Mary. 

No fond regret must Norman know; 

When bursts Clan-Alpine on the foe, 

His heart must be like bended bow, 

His foot like arrow free, Mary. 

A time will come with feeling fraught! 
For, if I fall in battle fought, 

Thy hapless lover’s dying thought 
Shall be a thought on thee, Mary. 











POEMS OF LOVE. 


187 


And if return’d from conquer’d foes, 

How blithely will the evening close, 

How sweet the linnet sing repose 
To my young bride and me, Mary ! 

Sir Walter Scott. 

Sigh no More, Ladies. 

Sigh no more, ladies, sigh no more; 

Men were deceivers ever ; 

One foot in sea, and one on shore, 

To one thing constant never : 

Then sigh not so, 

But let them go, 

And be you blvthe and bonny ; 
Converting all your sounds of woe 
Into, Hey nonny, nonny. 

Sing no more ditties, sing no mo 
Of dumps so dull and heavy ; 

The fraud of men was ever so, 

Since summer first was leavv : 

Then sigh not so, 

But let them go, 

And be you blythe and bonny; 
Converting all your sounds of woe 
Into, Hey nonny, nonny. 

William Shakespeare. 

Love Not. 

Love not, love not! ye hapless sons of 
clay! 

Hope’s gayest wreaths are made of 
earthly flowers— 

Things that are made to fade and fall away 
Ere they have blossom’d for a few short 
hours. 

Love not! 

Love not! the thing ye love may change ! 

The rosy lip may cease to smile on you, ^ 
The kindly-beaming eye grow cold and 
strange, 

The heart still warmly beat, yet not be true. 

Love not! 

Love not! the thing you love may die— 
May perish from the gay and gladsome 
earth; 

The silent stars, the blue and smiling sky, 
Beam o’er its grave, as once upon its birth. 

Love not! 


! Love not! oh, warning vainly said 
In present hours as in years gone by; 
Love flings a halo round the dear one’s 
head, 

Faultless, immortal, till they change or 
die. 

Love not! 

Caroline Norton. 

A WOMAN’S QUESTION. 

Before I trust my Fate to thee, 

Or place my hand in thine, 

Before I let thy Future give 
Color and form to mine, 

I 

Before I peril all for thee, question thy 
soul to-night for me. 

I break all slighter bonds, nor feel 
A shadow of regret: 

Is there one link within the Past 
That holds thy spirit yet ? 

Or is thy Faith as clear and free as that 
which I can pledge to thee ? 

Does there within thy dimmest dreams 
A possible future shine, 

Wherein thy life could henceforth 
breathe, 

LTntouch’d, unshared by mine? 

If so, at any pain or cost, oh tell me before 
all is lost. 

Look deeper still. If thou canst feel 
Within thy inmost soul. 

That thou hast kept a portion back, 
While I have staked the whole ; 

Let no false pity spare the blow, but in 
true mercy tell me so. 

Is there within thy heart a need 
That mine cannot fulfil ? 

One chord that any other hand 
Could better wake or still ? 

Speak now—lest at some future day my 
whole life wither and decay. 

Lives there -within thy nature hid 
The demon-spirit Change, 

Shedding a passing glory still 
On all things new and strange ? 

It may not be thy fault alone—but shield 
my heart against thy own. 











188 


FIRESIDE ENCYCLOPAEDIA OF POETRY. 


Couldst thou withdraw thy hand one day j 
And answer to my claim, 

That Fate, and that to-day’s mistake— 
Not thou—had been to blame? 

Some soothe their conscience thus; but 
thou wilt surely warn and save me 
now. 

Nay, answer not, —I dare not hear, 

The words would come too late ; 

Yet I would spare thee all remorse, 

So comfort thee, my Fate— 

Whatever on my heart may fall—remem¬ 
ber, I tvould risk it all! 

Adelaide Anne Pkocter. 

A Womans Answer. 

I will not let you say a woman’s part 

Must be to give exclusive love alone ; 

Dearest, although I love you so, my heart 

Answers a thousand claims besides your 
own. 

I love—what do I not love? Earth and 
air 

Find space within my heart, and myriad 
things 

You would not deign to heed are cherish’d 
there, 

And vibrate on its very inmost strings. 

I love the Summer, with her ebb and flow 

Of light, and warmth, and music, that 
have nursed 

Her tender buds to blossoms . . . and you 
know 

It was in summer that I saw you first. 

I love the Winter dearly too, . . . but then 

I owe it so much; on a winter’s day, 

Bleak, cold, and stormy, you return’d 
again, 

When you had been those weary months 
away. 

* love the Stars like friends; so many 
nights 

I gazed at them, when you were far from 
me, 

Till I grew blind with tears ; . ... those far- 
off lights 

Could watch you, whom I long’d in vain 
to see. 


I love the flowers; happy hours lie 
Shut up within their petals close and 
fast: 

You have forgotten, dear; but they and I 
Keep every fragment of the golden past. 

I love, too, to be loved; all loving praise 
Seems like a crown upon my life,—to 
make 

It better worth the giving, and to raise 
Still nearer to your own the heart you 
take. 

I love all good and noble souls;—I heard 
One speak of you but lately, and for 
days, 

Only to think of it, my soul was stirr’d 
In tender memory of such generous 
praise. 

I love all those who love you: all who owe 
Comfort to you; and I can find regret 

Even for those poorer hearts who once 
could know, 

And once could love you, and can now 
forget. 

Well, is my heart so narrow,—I, who spare 
Love for all these ? Do I not even hold 

My favorite books in special tender care, 
And prize them as a miser does his gold ?— 

The poets that you used to read to me 
While summer twilights faded in the 
sky; 

But most of all I think Aurora Leigh, 
Because — because — do you remember 
why? 

Will you be jealous? Did you guess be¬ 
fore 

I loved so many things?—Still you the 
best:— 

Dearest, remember that I love you more, 
Oh more a thousand times, than all the 
rest! 

Adelaide Anne Procter. 


Maude Clare. 

Out of the church she follow’d them 
With a lofty step and mien : 

His bride was like a village maid, 
Maude Clare was like a queen. 







POEMS OF LOVE. 


180 


“ Son Thomas,” his lady mother said, 
With smiles, almost with tears: 

“ May Nell and you but live as true 
As we have done for years; 

“ Your father thirty years ago 
Had just your tale to tell; 

But he was not so pale as you, 

Nor I so pale as Nell.” 

My lord was pale with inward strife, 

And Nell was pale with pride; 

My lord gazed long oh pale Maude Clare 
Or ever he kiss’d the bride. 

“ Lo, I have brought my gift, my lord, 
Have brought my gift,” she said: 

“ To bless the hearth, to bless the board, 
To bless the marriage-bed. 

“Here’s my half of the golden chain 
You wore about your neck, 

That day we waded ankle-deep 
For lilies in the beck: 

“ Here’s my half of the faded leaves 
We pluck’d from budding bough, 

With feet amongst the lilv-leaves,— 

The lilies are budding now.” 

He strove to match her scorn with scorn, 
He falter’d in his place: 

“Lady,” he said,—“Maude Clare,” he 
said,— 

“Maude Clare:”—and hid his face. 

She turn’d to Nell: “ My Lady Nell, 

I have a gift for you; 

Though were it fruit, the bloom were gone, 
Or, were it flowers, the dew. 

“ Take my share of a fickle heart, 

Mine of a paltry love: 

Take it or leave it as you will, 

I wash my hands thereof.” 

“ And what you leave,” said Nell, “ I’ll take, 
And what you spurn, I’ll wear; 

For he’s my lord for better and worse, 

And him I love, Maude Clare. 

“ Yea, though you’re taller by the head, 
More wise, and much more fair; 

I’ll love him till he loves me best, 

Me best of all, Maude Clare.” 

Christina Georgina Rossetti. 


A SERENADE. 

Ah ! County Guy, the hour is nigh, 

The sun has left the lea, 

The orange-flower perfumes the bower, 
The breeze is on the sea. 

The lark, his lay who trill’d all day, 

Sits hush’d his partner nigh ; 

Breeze, bird, and flower confess the hour, 
But where is County Guy? 

The village maid steals through the shade, 
Her shepherd’s suit to hear ; 

To beauty shy, by lattice high, 

Sings high-born cavalier. 

The star of Love, all stars above, 

Now reigns o’er earth and sky, 

And high and low the influence know, 

But where is County Guy? 

Sir Walter Scott. 

To a Very Young Lady. 

Ah, Chloris! could I now but sit 
As unconcern’d as when 
Your infant beauty could beget 
No happiness or pain ! 

When I the dawn used to admire, 

And praised the coming day, 

I little thought the rising fire 
Would take my rest away. 

Your charms in harmless childhood lay 
Like metals in a mine; 

Age from no face takes more away 
Than youth conceal’d in thine. 

But as your charms insensibly 
To their perfection prest, 

So love as unperceived did fly, 

And centred in my breast. 

My passion with your beauty grew. 

While Cupid at my heart 
Still as his mother favor’d you 
Threw a new flaming dart ; 

Each gloried in their wanton part; 

To make a lover he 
Employ’d the utmost of his art— 

To make a beauty, she. 

Though now I slowly bend to love 
Uncertain of my fate, 

If your fair self my chains approve 
I shall my freedom hate. 








190 


FIRESIDE ENCYCLOPAEDIA OF POETRY. 


Lovers, like dying men, may well 
At first disorder’d be, 

Since none alive can truly tell 
What fortune they must see. 

Sir Charles Sedley. 

Sonnet. 

Ltke as the culver, on the bared bough, 

Sits mourning for the absence of her 1 
mate, 

And in her songs sends many a wishful 
vow 

For his return that seems to linger late; 

So I alone, now left disconsolate, 

Mourn to myself the absence of my 
love, 

And, wand’ring here and there, all deso¬ 
late, 

Seek with my plaints to match that 
mournful dove; 

Ne joy of aught that under heaven doth 
hove 

Can comfort me but her own joyous 
sight, 

Whose sweet aspect both God and men 
can move, 

In her unspotted pleasures to delight. 

Dark is my day, whiles her fair light I 
miss, 

And dead my life, that wants such lively 
bliss. 

Edmund Spenser. 

My Silks and Fine Array. 

My silks and fine array, 

My smiles and languished air, 

By love are driven away ; 

And mournful, lean Despair 

Brings me yew to deck my grave : 

Such end true lovers have. 

His face is as fair as heaven 
When springing buds unfold; 

O, why to him was’t given, 

Whose heart is wintry cold ? 

His breast is love’s all-worshipped tomb, 

Where all love’s pilgrims come. 

Bring me an axe and spade, 

Bring me a winding sheet; 


When I my grave have made 
Let winds and tempests beat! 

Then down I’ll lie as cold as clay: 

True love doth pass away. 

William Blake. 


A Renunciation. 

If women could be fair, and yet not fond, 

Or that their love were firm, not fickle 
still, 

I would not marvel that they make men 
bond 

By service long to purchase their good¬ 
will, 

But when I see how frail those creatures 
are, 

I muse that men forget themselves so far. 

To mark the choice they make, and how 
they change, 

How oft from Phoebus they do flee to 
Pan, 

Unsettled still, like haggards wild they 
range, 

These gentle birds that fly from man to 
man; 

Who would not scorn and shake them 
from the fist, 

And let them fly, fair fools, which way 
they list. 

Yet for disport we fawn and flatter both. 

To pass the time when nothing else can 
please, 

And train them to our lure with subtle 
oath, 

Till, weary of their wiles, ourselves we 
ease; 

And then we say when we their fancy 
try, 

To play with fools, oh, what a fool was I! 

Edward Verb, Earl of Oxford. 


Blame not my Lute. 

Blame not my Lute ! for he must sound 
Of this or that as liketh me; 

For lack of wit the Lute is bound 
To give such tunes as pleaseth me; 











POEMS OF LOVE. 


191 


Though my songs be somewhat strange, 
And speak such words as touch my change, 
Blame not my Lute ! 

My Lute, alas ! doth not offend, 

Though that perforce he must agree 
To sound such tunes as I intend 
To sing to them that heareth me; 

Then though my songs be somewhat plain, 
And toucheth some that use to feign, 
Blame not my Lute ! 

My Lute and strings may not deny, 

But as I strike they must obey ; 

Break not them so wrongfully, 

But wreak thyself some other way ; 

And though the songs which I indite 
Do quit thy change with rightful spite, 
Blame not my Lute ! 

Spite asketh spite, and changing change, 
And falsfed faith must needs be known ; 
The faults so great, the case so strange ; 

Of right it must abroad be blown : 

Then since that by thine own desert 
My songs do tell how true thou art, 

Blame not my Lute ! 

Blame but thyself that hast misdone, 

And well deserved to have blame; 
Change thou thy way, so evil begone, 

And then my Lute shall sound that same! 
But if till then my fingers play, 

By thy desert their wonted way, 

Blame not my Lute ! 

Farewell, unknown; for though thou break 
My strings in spite with great disdain, 
Yet have I found out, for thy sake, 

Strings for to string my Lute again : 

And if perchance this silly rhyme 
Do make thee blush at any time, 

Blame not my Lute ! 

Sir Thomas Wyatt. 

Sonnet. 

O happy Thames that didst my Stella 
bear! 

I saw myself with many a smiling line 
Upon thy cheerful face, joy’s livery wear, 
While those fair planets on thy streams 
did shine; 


The boat for joy could not to dance for- 
bear; 

While wanton winds, with beauties so 
divine 

Ravish’d, staid not till in her golden hair 

They did themselves, O sweetest prison! 
twine; 

And fain those Eol’s youth there would 
their stay 

Have made, but forced by Nature still to 

fly. 

First did with puffing kiss those locks dis¬ 
play. 

She so dishevell’d, blush’d:—from win¬ 
dow I, 

With sight thereof, cried out, O fair dis¬ 
grace ! 

Let honor’s self to thee grant highest place. 

Sir Philip Sidney. 


The Re-cured Lover Exult eth 
in his Freedom. 

I I am as I am, and so will I be : 

But how that I am none knoweth truly. 

Be it ill, be it well, be I bond, be I free, 

I am as I am, and so will I be. 

I lead my life, indifferently ; 

I mean nothing but honesty; 

And though folks judge full diversely, 

I am as I am, and so will T die. 

1 

I do not rejoice nor yet complain, 

Both mirth and sadness I do refrain, 

And use the means since folks will feign ; 
Yet T am as I am, be it pleasant or pain. 

Divers do judge as they do trow, 

Some of pleasure and some of woe, 

Yet for all that, nothing they know r ; 

But I am as I am, wheresoever I go. 

i 

But since judgers do thus decay, 

Let every man his judgment say; 

I will it take in sport and play, 

For I am as I am, whosoever say nay. 

Who judgeth well, well God them send; 
Who judgeth evil, God them amend; 

To judge the best therefore intend, 

For I am as I am, and so will I end. 









192 


FIRESIDE ENCYCLOPAEDIA OF POETRY. 


Yet some there be that take delight, 

To judge folks’ thought for envy and spite; J 
But whether they judge me wrong or right, 

I am as I am, and so do I write. 

Praying you all that this do read, 

To trust it as you do your creed; 

And not to think I change my weed, 

For I am as I am, however I speed. 

But how that is I leave to you; 

Judge as ye list, false or true, 

Ye know no more than afore ye knew, 

Yet I am as I am, whatever ensue. 

And from this mind I will not flee, 

But to you all that misjudge me, 

I do protest, as ye may see, 

That I am as I am, and so will be. 

Sir Thomas Wyatt. 

Sonnet. 

Having this day my horse, my hand, my 
lance 

Guided so well, that I obtain’d the prize, 
Both by the judgment of the English eyes, 
And of some sent from that sweet enemy 
France; 

Horsemen my skill in horsemanship ad¬ 
vance ; 

Townfolks my strength; a daintier judge 
applies 

His praise to sleight which from good use 
doth rise; 

Borne lucky wits impute it but to chance ; 

Others, because of both sides I do take 
My blood from them who did excel in this, 
Think Nature me a man of arms did 
make. 

How far they shot awry! the true cause is 
Stella look’d on, and from her heavenly 
face 

Sent forth the beams which made so fair 
my race. 

Sir Philip Sidney. 

A Fragment from Sappho. 

Blest as the immortal gods is he, 

The youth who fondly sits by thee, 

And hears and sees thee all the while 
Softly speak and sweetly smile. 


’Twas this deprived my soul of rest, 

And raised such tumults in my breast: 
For while I gazed, in transport tost, 

My breath was gone, my voice was lost. 

My bosom glow’d ; the subtle flame 
Ran quick through all my vital frame : 
O’er my dim eyes a darkness hung; 

My ears with hollow murmurs rung. 

In dewy damps my limbs were chill’d; 
My blood with gentle horrors thrill’d- 
My feeble pulse forgot to play— 

I fainted, sunk, and died away. 

Ambrose Philips. 


Ask Me no More. 

Ask me no more: the moon may draw the 
sea; 

The cloud may stoop from heaven and 
take the shape, 

With fold to fold, of mountain or of cape ; 

But, oh too fond, when have I answer’d 
thee ? 

Ask me no more. 

Ask me no more: what answer should I 
give ? 

I love not hollow cheek or faded eye ; 

Yet, O my friend, I will not have thee 
die! 

Ask me no more, lest I should bid thee 
live; 

Ask me no more. 

Ask me no more: thy fate and mine are 
seal’d. 

I strove against the stream, and all in 
vain. 

Let the great river take me to the main. 

No more, dear love, for at a touch I yield ; 
Ask me no more ! 

Alfred Tennyson. 

Ask me no More where Jove 
Besto ws. 

Ask me no more, where Jove bestows, 

When June is past, the Aiding rose; 

For in your beauties, orient deep, 

These flow’rs, as in their causes, sleep. 






POEMS OF LOVE. 


193 


Ask ine no more, whither do stray 
The golden atoms of the day; 

For, in pure love, heaven did prepare 
Those powders to enrich your hair. 

Ask me no more, whither doth haste 
The nightingale, when May is past; 

For in your sweet dividing throat 
She winters, and keeps warm her note. 

Ask me no more, where those stars light, 
That downward fall in dead of night ; 
For in your eyes they sit, and there 
FixM become, as in their sphere. 

Ask me no more if east or west 
The Phoenix builds her spicy nest; 

For unto you at last she flies, 

And in your fragrant bosom dies. 

Thomas Carkw. 


My Dear and Only Love. 

Paiit First. 

My dear and only love, I pray, 

This noble world of thee 
Be govern’d by no other sway 
But purest monarchic. 

For if confusion have a part, 

Which virtuous souls abhore, 

And hold a synod in thy heart, 

I’ll never love thee more. 

Like Alexander I will reign, 

And I will reign alone, 

My thoughts shall evermore disdain 
A rival on my throne. 

He either fears his fate too much, 

Or his deserts are small, 

That puts it not unto the touch, 

To win or lose it all. 

But I must rule and govern still, 

And always give the law, 

And have each subject at my will, 
And all to stand in awe. 

But ’gainst my battery if I find 
Thou shun’st the prize so sore 
As that thou set’st me up a blind, 

I’ll never love thee more. 

If in the empire of thy heart,- 
Where I should solely be, 

13 


Another do pretend a part, 

And dares to vie with me; 

Or if committees thou erect, 

And go on such a score, 

I’ll sing and laugh at thv neglect, 

And never love thee more. 

But if thou wilt be constant then. 

And faithful of thy word, 

I’ll make thee glorious by my pen, 
And famous by my sword. 

I’ll serve thee in such noble ways 
Was never heard before; 

I'll crown and deck thee all with bays. 
And love thee evermore. 

Part Second. 

My dear and only love, take heed, 

Lest thou thyself expose, 

And let all longing lovers feed 
Upon such looks as those. 

A marble wall then build about, 

Beset without a door; 

But if thou let thy heart fly out, 

I’ll never love thee more. 

) 

Let not their oaths, like volleys shot. 
Make any breach at all; 

Nor smoothness of their language plot 
Which way to scale the wall; 

Nor balls of wild-tire love consume 
The shrine which I adore; 

For if such smoke about thee fume, 

I’ll never love thee more. 

I think thy virtues be too strong 
To sutler by surprise; 

Those vietuall’d by my love so long. 
The siege at length must rise, 
i And leave thee ruled in that health 
And state thou wast before ; 

But if thou turn a commonwealth. 

I’ll never love thee more. 

Or if by fraud, or by consent, 

Thy heart to mine come, 

I’ll sound no trumpet as I wont, 

Nor march by tuck of drum; 

But hold my arms, like ensigns, up, 
Thy falsehood to deplore, 

And bitterly will sigh and weep, 

And never love thee more. 











194 


FIRESIDE ENCYCLOPAEDIA OF POETRY. 


I’ll do with thee as Nero did, 

When Rome was set on fire, 

Not only all relief forbid, 

But to a hill retire, 

And scorn to shed a tear to see 
Thy spirit grown so poor; 

But smiling sing, until I die, 

I’ll never love thee more. 

Yet, for the love I bare thee once, 

Lest that thy name should die, 

A monument of marble-stone 
The truth shall testifie: 

That every pilgrim passing by 
May pity and deplore 
My case, and read the reason why 
I can love thee no more. 

The golden laws of love shall be 
Upon this pillar hung,— 

A simple heart, a single eye, 

A true and constant tongue; 

Let no man for more love pretend 
Than he has hearts in store; 

True love begun shall never end; 

Love one and love no more. 

Then shall thy heart be set by mine, 

But in far different case; 

But mine was true, so was not thine, 

But lookt like Janus’ face. 

For as the waves with every wind, 

So sail’st thou every shore, 

And leav’st my constant heart behind,— 
How can I love thee more? 

My heart shall with the sun be fix’d 
For constancy most strange, 

And thine shall with the moon be mix’d, 
Delighting aye in change. 

Thy beauty shined at first more bright, 
And woe is me therefore, 

That ever I found thy love so light 
I could love thee no more! 

The misty mountains, smoking lakes, 
The rocks’ resounding echo, 

The whistling wind that murmur makes 
Shall with me sing hey ho ! 

The tossing seas, the tumbling boats, 
Tears dropping from each shore, 

Shall tune with me their turtle notes— 
I’ll never love thee more. 


As doth the turtle, chaste and true. 

Her fellow’s death regrete, 

And daily mourns for his adieu. 

And ne’er renews her mate; 

So, though thy faith was never fast, 
Which grieves me wondrous sore, 

Yet I shall live in love so chast, 

That I shall love no more. 

And when all gallants ride about 
These monuments to view, 

Whereon is written, in and out, 

Thou traitorous and untrue; 

Then in a passion they shall pause, 

And thus say, sighing sore, 

“Alas! he had too just a cause, 

Never to love thee more.” 

And when that tracing goddess Fame 
From east to west shall flee, 

She shall record it to thy shame, 

How thou hast lovfcd me: 

And how in odds our love was such 
As few have been before: 

Thou loved too many, and T too much, 
So I can love no more. 

James Graham, Marquis of Montrose. 

Colin’s Complaint . 

Despairing beside a clear stream, 

A shepherd forsaken was laid ; 

And while a false nymph was his theme, 

A willow supported his head. 

The wind that blew over the plain, 

To his sighs with a sigh did reply, 

And the brook, in return to his pain, 

Ran mournfully murmuring by. 

Alas ! silly 3wain that I was ! 

Thus sadly complaining he cried; 

When first I beheld that fair face, 

’Twere better by far I had died : 

She talk’d, and I bless’d her dear tongue; 
When she smiled, ’twas a pleasure toe 
great; 

I listen’d, and cried when she sung, 

Was nightingale ever so sweet! 

How foolish was I to believe, 

She could dote on so lowly a clown, 

Or that her fond heart would not grieve 
To forsake the fine folk of the town; 










POEMS OB' LOVE. 


195 


To think that a beauty so gay 
So kind and so constant would prove, 

Or go clad, like our maidens, in gray, 

Or live in a cottage on love! 

./hat though I have skill to complain, 
Though the muses my temples have 
crown’d, 

What though, when they hear my soft 
strain, 

The virgins sit weeping around? 

Ah, Colin! thy hopes are in vain, 

Thy pipe and thy laurel resign, 

Thy false one inclines to a swain 
Whose music is sweeter than thine. 

All you, my companions so dear, 

Who sorrow to see me betray’d, 
Whatever I suffer, forbear, 

Forbear to accuse the false maid. 
Though through the wide world I should 
range, 

’Tis in vain from my fortune to fly; 
’Twas hers to be false and to change, 

’Tis mine to be constant and die. 

If while my hard fate I sustain, 

In her breast any pity is found, 

Let her come with the nymphs of the plain, 
And see me laid low in the ground: 

The last humble boon that I crave, 

Is to shade me with cypress and yew; 
And when she looks down on my grave, 
Let her own that her shepherd was true. 

Then to her new love let her go 
And deck her in golden array; 

Be finest at every fine show, 

And frolic it all the long day: 

While Colin, forgotten and gone, 

No more shall be talk’d of or seen, 
Unless when beneath the pale moon, 

His ghost shall glide over the green. 

Nicholas Rowe. 


TO CELIA. 

Drink to me only with thine eyes, 
And I will pledge with mine; 

Or leave a kiss but in the cup, 

And I’ll not look for wine. 


The thirst that from the soul doth rise 
Doth ask a drink divine; 

But might I of Jove’s nectar sup, 

I would not change for thine. 

I sent thee late a rosy wreath, 

Not so much honoring thee 

As giving it a hope that there 
It could not wither’d be; 

But thou thereon didst only breathe 
And sent’st it back to me; 

Since when it grows, and smells, I swear, 
Not of itself, but thee! 

(From the Greek.) 

Ben Jonson. 


At Setting Day and Rising 
Morn. 

At setting day and rising morn, 

With soul that still shall love thee, 

I’ll ask of Heaven thy safe return, 

With all that can improve thee. 

I’ll visit aft the birken bush, 

Where first thou kindly told me 
Sweet tales of love, and hid thy blush, 
Whilst round thou didst enfold me. 

To all our haunts 1 will repair, 

By greenwood shaw or fountain, 

Or where the summer day I’d share 
With thee upon yon mountain ; 

There will I tell the trees and flowers. 
From thoughts unfeign’d and tender, 
By vows you’re mine, bv love is yours 
A heart that cannot wander. 

Allan Ramsay. 

Logiiaber no More. 

Farewell to Lochabcr, and farewell, my 
Jean, 

Where heartsome with thee I hae mony 
day been! 

For Lochaber no rnme, Lochaber no more, 

We’ll maybe return to Lochaber no more! 

These tears that I shed, they are a’ for 
my dear, 

And no for the dangers attending on 
war, 

Though borne on rough seas to a far bloody 
shore, 

Maybe to return to Lochaber no more. 







FIRESIDE ES(') ('ROPMl)IA OF POETRY. 


1 y»> 


l'hough hurricanes rise, and rise every 
wind, 

They’ll ne’er make a tempest like that in 
my mind; 

Though loudest of thunder on louder 
waves roar, 

That’s naething like leaving my love on 
the shore. 

To leave thee behind me my heart is sair 
pain’d ; 

By ease that’s inglorious no fame can he 
gain’d; 

And beauty and love’s the reward of the 
brave, 

And 1 must deserve it before I can crave. 

Then glory, my Jeanv, maun plead my ex¬ 
cuse ; 

Since honor commands me, how can I re¬ 
fuse ? 

Without it I ne’er can have merit for 
thee, 

And without thy favor I’d better not be. 

I gae then, my lass, to win honor and 
fame, 

And if 1 should luck to come gloriously 
hame, 

I’ll bring a heart to thee with love run¬ 
ning o’er, 

And then I’ll leave thee and Lochaber no 
more. 

Allan Ramsay. 

Song. 

In t vain you tell your parting lover— 

Your wish fair winds may waft him over: 
Alas! what winds can happy prove, 

That bear me far from what I love? 

Can equal those that I sustain, 

From slighted vows and cold disdain ? 

Be gentle, and in pity choose 
To wish the wildest tempests loose, 

That, thrown again upon the coast 
Where first my shipwreck’d heart was lost, 
I may once more repeat my pain; 

Once more in dying notes complain 
Of slighted vows and cold disdain. 

Matthew Prior. 


Evelyn Hope. 

Beactiful Evelyn Hope is dead ! 

Sit and watch by her side an hour. 

That is her book-shelf, this her bed ; 

She pluck’d that piece of geranium- 
flower. 

Beginning to die, too, in the glass. 

Little has yet been changed, I think ; 
The shutters are shut—no light may pass, 
Save two long rays thro’ the hinges 
chink. 

Sixteen years old when she died! 

Perhaps she had scarcely heard my 
name— 

It was not her time to love; beside, 

Her life had many a hope and aim, 
Duties enough and little cares; 

And now was quiet, now astir— 

Till Cod’s hand beckon’d unawares, 

And the sweet white brow is all of her. 

Is it too late, then, Evelyn Hope? 

What! your soul was pure and true ; 

I The good stars met in your horoscope, 
Alade you of spirit, fire, and dew ; 

And just because I was thrice as old, 

And our paths in the world diverged so 
wide, 

Each was naught to each, must I be told ? 
We were fellow-mortals—naught beside? 

Xo, indeed! for God above 

Is great to grant, as mighty to make, 
And creates the love to reward the love; 

I claim you still, for mv own love’s sake! 
Delay’d, it may be, for more lives yet, 
Through worlds I shall traverse, not a 
few; 

Much is to learn and much to forget 
Ere the time be come for taking you. 

j But the time will come—at last it will— 
When, Evelyn Hope, what meant, I shall 
say, 

i In the lower earth—in the years long still— 
That body and soul so gay? 

Why your hair was amber I shall divine, 
And your mouth of your own geranium’s 
red— 

And what you would do with me, in fine, 
In the new life come in the old one’s 
I stead. 





POEMS OF LOVE. 


197 


1 have lived, I shall say, so much since 
then, 

Given up myself so many times, 

Gain’d me the gains of various men, 
Ransack’d the ages, spoil’d the climes; 
Yet one thing—one — in my soul’s full 
scope, 

Either l miss’d or itself miss'd me— 
And I want and find you, Evelyn Hope! 
What is the issue? let us see ! 

1 loved you, Evelyn, all the while; 

My heart seem’d full as it could hold— 
There was place and to spare for the frank 
young smile 

And the red young mouth and'the hair’s 
young gold. 

So hush ! I will give you this leaf to keep; 
See, 1 shut it inside the sweet, cold 
hand. 

There, that is our secret! go to sleep; 

You will wake, and remember, and un¬ 
derstand. 

Robert Browning. 

Come away, Come away, Death. 

Come away, come away, Death, 

And in sad cypres let me be laid ; 

Fly away, fly away, breath; 

1 am slain by a fair cruel maid. 

M v shroud of white, stuck all with yew, 
Oh prepare it! 

My part of death no one so true 
Did share it. 

Not a flower, not a flower sweet 

On my black coffin let there be strown ; 
Not a friend, not a friend greet 

My poor corpse, where my bones shall 
be thrown: 

A thousand thousand sighs to save, 

Lay me, oh where 
Sad true lover never find my grave, 

To weep there. 

William Shakespeare. 

Colin and Lucy. 

Of Leinster, famed for maidens fair, 
Bright Lucy was the grace; 

Nor e’er did Liffy’s limpid stream 
Reflect so fair a face. 


Till luckless love and pining care 
Impair’d her rosy hue, 

Her coral lip, and <lamask cheek, 

And eyes of glossy blue. 

| Oh, have you seen a lily pale, 

When beating rains descend? 

So droop’d the slow-consuming maid ; 

Her life now near its end. 

By Lucy warn’d, of flattering swains 
Take heed, ye easy fair ; 

Of vengeance due to broken vows 
Y r e perjured swains beware. 

Three times, all in the dead of night, 

A bell was heard to ring; 

And at her window, shrieking thrice, 

The raven flapp’d his wing. 

Too well the love-lorn maiden knew 
That solemn boding sound ; 

And thus in dying words bespoke 
The virgins weeping round : 

“ I hear a voice you cannot hear, 

Which says I must not stay; 

I see a hand you cannot see, 

Which beckons me away. 

“ By a false heart and broken vows, 

In early youth I die. 

; Am I to blame because his bride 
Is thrice as rich as I ? 

u Ah, Colin ! give not her thy vows, 

Vows due to me alone: 

Nor thou, fond maid, receive his kiss, 

Nor think him all thy own. 

“ To-morrow in the church to wed, 
Impatient, both prepare, 

But know, fond maid, and know, false youth, 
That Lucy will be there. 

“ Then bear my corse, ye comrades, bear, 
The bridegroom blithe to meet; 

He in his wedding-trim so gay, 

I in my winding-sheet.” 

She spoke, she died;—her corse was borne 
The bridegroom blithe to meet; 

He in his wedding-trim so gay, 

She in her winding-sheet. 









198 


FIRESIDE ENCYCLOPAEDIA OF POETRY. 


Then what were perjured Colin’s thoughts? 
How were those nuptials kept? 

The bride-men flock’d round Lucy dead, 
And all the village wept. 

Confusion, shame, remorse, despair, 

At once his bosom swell; 

The damps of death bedew’d his brow, 

He shook, he groan’d, he fell. 

From the vain bride (ah, bride no more!) 
The varying crimson fled, 

When, stretch’d before her rival’s corse, 
She saw her husband dead. 

Then to his Lucy’s new-made grave, 
Convey’d by trembling swains, 

One mould with her beneath one sod, 

For ever now remains. 

Oft at their grave the constant hind 
And plighted maid are seen; 

With garlands gay, and true-love knots 
They deck the sacred green. 

But, swain forsworn, whoe’er thou art, 
This hallow’d spot forbear, 

Remember Colin’s dreadful fate, 

And fear to meet him there. 

Thomas Tickell. 


Lord Lovel. 

Lord Lovel he stood at bis castle-gate 
Combing his milk-white steed ; 

When up came Lady Nancy Belle, 

To wish her lover good speed, speed, 

To wish her lover good speed. 

“ Where are you going, Lord Lovel ?” she 
said, 

“ Oh ! where are you going?” said she; 

“ I’m going, my Lady Nancy Belle, 
Strange countries for to see, to see, 
Strange countries for to see.” 

4 When will you be back, Lord Lovel?” 
she said; 

“ Oh ! when will you come back ?” said 
she; 

u In a year or two—or three, at the most, 
I’ll return In my fair Nancy-cy, 

I’ll return to my fair Nancy.” 


But he had not been gone a year and a 
day, 

Strange countries for to see, 

When languishing thoughts came into his 
head, 

Lady Nancy Belle he would go see, see. 
Lady Nancy Belle he would go see. 

So he rode and he rode on his milk-white 
steed, 

Till he came to London town, 

And there he heard St. Pancras’ bells, 

And the people all mourning, round, 
round, 

.And the people all mourning round. 

“Oh ! what is the matter?” Lord Lovel he 
said, 

“ Oh ! what is the matter?” said he ; 

“ A lord’s lady is dead,” a woman replied, 
“And some call her Lady Nancy-cy, 
And some call her Lady Nancy.” 

So he order’d the grave to be open’d wide, 
And the shroud he turned down, 

And there he kiss’d her clay-cold lips, 

Till the tears came trickling down, down, 
Till the tears came trickling down. 

Lady Nancy she died as it might be to-day, 
Lord Lovel he died as to-morrow ; 

Lady Nancy she died out of pure, pure 
grief, 

Lord Lovel he died out of sorrow, sor¬ 
row, 

Lord Lovel he died out of sorrow. 

Lady Nancy was laid in St. Pancras’ 
church, 

Lord Lovel was laid in the choir; 

And out of her bosom there grew a red 
rose, 

And out of her lover’s a brier, brier, 
And out of her lover’s a brier. 

They grew, and they grew, to the church 
steeple top, 

And then they could grow no higher: 

So there they entwined in a true-lorer’s 
knot, 

For all lovers true to admire-mire, 

For all lovers true to admire. 

Author Unknown. 











POEMS OF LOVE. 


Annie Laurie. 

Maxwelton braes are bonnie 
Where early fa’s the dew, 

And it’s there that Annie Laurie 
Gie’d me her promise true— 

Gie’d me her promise true, 

Which ne’er forgot will be ; 

And for bonnie Annie Laurie 
I’d lay me doune and dee. 

Her brow is like the snaw-drift; 

Her throat is like the swan ; 

Her face it is the fairest 
That e’er the sun shone on— 

That e’er the sun shone on— 

And dark blue is her ee ; 

And for bonnie Annie Laurie 
I’d lay me doune and dee. 

Like dew on the gowan lying 
Is the fa’ o’ her fairy feet; 

And like the winds in summer sighing, 
Her voice is low and sweet— 

Her voice is low and sweet— 

And she’s a’ the world to me; 

And for bonnie Annie Laurie 
I’d lay me doune and dee. 

Author Unknown. 

What Ails this Heart o' Mine? 

What ails this heart o’ mine? 

What ails this watery ee? 

What gars me a’ turn pale as death 
When I take leave o’ thee? 

When thou art far awa’, 

Thou’lt dearer grow to me ; 

But change o’ place and change o’ folk 
May gar thy fancy jee. 

When I gae out at e’en, 

Or walk at morning air, 

Ilka rustling bush will seem to say, 

I used to meet thee there. 

Then I’ll sit down and cry, 

And live aneath the tree, 

And when a leaf fa’s i’ my lap, 

I’ll ca’ ’t a word frae thee. 

I’ll hie me to the bower 
That thou wi’ roses tied, 

And where wi’ mony a blushing bud 
I strove myself to hide. 


199 


I’ll doat on ilka spot 

Where I hae been wi’ thee; 

And ca’ to mind some kindly word, 

By ilka burn and tree. 

Susanna Bi.amikk 


The Portrait. 

Midnight past! Not a sound of aught 
Through the silent house, but the wind 
at his prayers. 

I sat by the dying fire, and thought 
Of the dear dead woman up stairs. 

A night of tears ! for the gusty rain 

Had ceased, but the eaves were dripping 
yet; 

And the moon look’d forth, as though in 
pain, 

With her face all white and wet: 

Nobody with me, my watch to keep, 

But the friend of my bosom, the man I 
love: 

And grief had sent him fast to sleep 
In the chamber up above. 

Nobody else, in the country place 
All round, that knew of my loss beside, 
But the good young Priest with the Ra- 
phael-face, 

Who confess’d her when she died. 

That good young Priest is of gentle nerve. 
And my grief had moved him beyond 
control; 

For his lip grew white, as I could observe, 
When he speeded her parting soul. 

I sat by the dreary hearth alone: 

I thought of the pleasant days of yore: 

I said, “ The staff of my life is gone: 

The woman I loved is no more. 

“ On her cold dead bosom my portrait lies. 
Which next to her heart she used to 
wear— 

Haunting it o’er with her tender eyes 
When my own face was not there. 

“ It is set all round with rubies red, 

And pearls which a Peri might have kept. 
For each ruby there my heart hath bled . 
For each pearl my eyes have wept.” 






FIRESIDE ENCYCLOPAEDIA OF POETRY. 


200 


Ami I said—“ The thing is precious to me: 
They will bury her soon in the church¬ 
yard clay.; 

It lies on her heart, and lost must be 
If T do not take it away.” 

i lighted my lamp at the dying flame, 

And crept up the stairs that creak’d for 
fright, 

fill into the chamber of death I came, 
Where she lay all in white. 

The moon shone over her winding-sheet, 
There stark she lay on her carven bed: 
Seven burning tapers about her feet, 

And seven about her head. 

As I stretch’d my hand, I held my breath ; 

I turn’d as I drew the curtains apart: 

I dared not look on the face of death: 

I knew where to find her heart. 

I thought at first, as my touch fell there, 

It had warm’d that heart to life, with 
love; 

For the thing I touch’d was warm, 1 swear, 
And I could feel it move. 

’Twas the hand of a man, that was moving 
slow 

O’er the heart of the dead,—from the 
other side: 

And at once the sweat broke over my 
brow: 

“ Who is robbing the corpse ?” I cried. 

Opposite me by the tapers’ light, 

The friend of my bosom, the man I 
loved, 

Stood over the corpse, and all as white, 

And neither of us moved. 

“ What do you here, my friend?” . . . The 
man 

Look’d first at me, and then at the dead. ! 
“ There is a portrait here,” he began; 

“ There is. It is mine,” I said. 

Said the friend of my bosom, “Yours, no 
doubt, 

The portrait was, till a month ago, 

When this suffering angel took that out, 
And placed mine there, I know. 


This woman, she loved me well,” said I. 
“ A month ago,” said my friend to me: 
And in your throat,” I groan’d, “you 
lie!” 

He answer’d, . . . “ Let us sec.” 

Enough!” I return’d, “let the dead de¬ 
cide : 

And whose soever the portrait prove, 

His shall it be, when the cause is tried, 

Where Death is arraign’d by Love.” 

i We found the portrait there, in its place: 

We open’d it by the tapers’ shine: 

| The gems were all unchanged: the face 

Was—neither his nor mine. 

“ One nail drives out another, at least! 

The face of the portrait there,” I cried, 

“ Is our friend’s the Raphael-faced young 
Priest, 

Who confess’d her when she died.” 

The setting is all of rubies red, 

And pearls which a Peri might have 
kept. 

For each ruby there my heart hath bled: 

For each pearl my eyes have wept. 

Robkkt Bulwer Lytto.w 
(Owen Meredith.) 

Amynta. 

\ My sheep I neglected, I broke my sheep- 
hook, 

And all the gay haunts of my youth I 
forsook; 

No more for Amynta fresh garlands I 
wove: 

For ambition, I said, would soon cure me 
of love. 

Oh, what had my youth with ambition 
to do? 

Why left I Amynta ? Why broke I my 
vow? 

Oh, give me my sheep, and my sheep- 
hook restore, 

And I’ll wander from love and Amynta 
no more. 

Through regions, remote in vain do 1 
rove, 

And bid the wide ocean secure me from 
love! 










POEMS OF LOVE. 


201 


O fool! to imagine that aught could subdue 

A love so well founded, a passion so true! 

Oh, what bad my youth with ambition 
to do? 

Why left I Amynta? Why broke 1 mv 
vow ? 

Oh, give me my sheep, and my sheep- 
hook restore, 

And I’ll wander from love and Amynta 
no more. 

Alas ! ’tis too late at thy fate to repine; 

Poor shepherd, Amynta can never be 
thine: 

Thy tears are all fruitless, thy wishes are 
vain, 

The moments neglected return not again. 

Oh, what had my youth with ambition 
to do ? 

Why left I Amynta? Why broke I my 
vow ? 

Oh, give me my sheep, and my sheep- 
hook restore, 

And I’ll wander from love and Amynta 
no more. 

Sir Gilbert Elliot. 

Mary Macneil- 

The last gleam o’ sunset in ocean was sink- 
in’, 

Owre mountain and meadowland glintin’ 
fareweel; 

An’ thousands o’ stars in the heavens were 
blinkin’, 

As bright as the een o’ sweet Mary Mac¬ 
neil. 

A ! glowing wi’ gladness she lean’d on her 
lover, 

Her een tellin’ secrets she thought to 
conceal, 

And fondly they wander’d whar nane might 
discover 

The tryst o’ young Ronald an’ Mary 
Macneil. 

Oh ! Mary was modest, an’ pure as the lily, 

That dew-draps o’ mornin’ in fragrance 
reveal; 

Nae fresh bloomin’ flow’ret in hill or in 
valley 

Could rival the beauty of Mary Macneil. 


She moved, and the graces played sportive 
around her; 

She smiled, and the hearts o’ the cauld- 
est wad thrill; 

She sang, and the mavis cam’ listenin’ in 
wonder, 

To claim a sweet sister in Mary Macneil. 

But ae bitter blast on its fair promise 
blawin’, 

Frae spring a’ its beauty an’ blossoms 
will steal; 

An’ ae sudden blight on the gentle heart 
fa’in’ 

Inflicts the deep wound nothing earthly 
can heal. 

The simmer saw Ronald on glory’s path 
hiein’; 

The autumn, his corse on the red battle- 
fiel’; 

The winter, the maiden found heartbroken, 
dyin’; 

An’ spring spread the green turf owre 
Mary Macneil. 

Erskine Conolly. 

I Doris. 

T SAT with Doris, the shepherd maiden : 

Her crook was laden with wreathed 
flowers; 

I sat and wooed her through sunlight wheel¬ 
ing 

And shadows stealing, for hours and 
hours. 

And she, my Doris, whose lap encloses 

Wild summer-roses of rare perfume, 

The while I sued her, kept hushed, and 
hearkened 

Till shades had darkened from gloss to 
gloom. 

| She touched my shoulder with fearful finger: 

She said, “We linger, we must not stay; 

My flock’s in danger, my sheep will wander: 

Behold them yonder, how far they 
stray!” 

I answered bolder, “ Nay, let me hear you, 

And still be near you, and still adore ! 

No wolf nor stranger will touch one year¬ 
ling. 

Ah ! stay, my darling, a moment more!’’ 






202 


FIRESIDE ENCYCLOPAEDIA OF POETRY. 


She whispered, sighing, “ There will be sor¬ 
row 

Beyond to-morrow, if I lose to-day; 

My fold unguarded, my flock unfolded, 

I shall be scolded, and sent away.” 

Said I, denying, “If they do miss you, 
They ought to kiss you when you get 
home: 

And well rewarded by friend and neighbor 
Should be the labor from which you 
come.” 

“They might remember,” she answered 
meekly, 

“ That lambs are weakly, and sheep are 
wild; 

But if they love me ’tis none so fervent; 

I am a servant, and not a child.” 

Then each hot ember glowed quick within 
me, 

And love did win me to swift reply : 

“Ah ! do but prove me, and none shall 
blind you, 

Nor fray, nor find you, until I die.” 

She blushed and started: I stood awaiting, 
As if debating in dreams divine ; 

But I did brave them—I told her plainly 
She doubted vainly; she must be mine. 

So we, twin-hearted, from all the valley 
Did rouse and rally the nibbling ewes; 
And homeward drave them, we two to¬ 
gether, 

Through blooming heather and gleaming 
dews. 

That simple duty fresh grace did lend her, 
My Doris tender, my Doris true; 

That I her warder, did always bless her, 
And often press her to take her due. 

And now in beauty she fills my dwelling, 
With love excelling, and undefiled; 

And love doth guard her, both fast and 
fervent, 

No more a servant, nor yet a child. 

Arthur Joseph Munby. 

A Nice Correspondent. 

The glow and the glory are plighted 
To darkness, for evening is come; 


| The lamp in Glebe Cottage is lighted; 

The birds and the sheep-bells are dumb 
I’m alone at my casement, for Pappy 
Is summoned to dinuer at Kew : 

I’m alone, my dear Fred, but I’m happy,-— 
I’m thinking of you. 

I wish you were here. Were I duller 
Than dull, you’d be dearer than dear ; 

I am dressed in your favorite color,— 

Dear Fred, how I wish you were here! 

I am wearing my lazuli necklace, 

The necklace you fastened askew ! 

Was there ever so rude or so reckless 
A darling as you ? 

I want you to come and pass sentence 
On two or three books with a plot; 

Of course you know “Janet’s Repentance”? 

I’m reading Sir Waverley Scott, 

The story of Edgar and Lucy, 

How thrilling, romantic, and true; 

The master (his bride was a goosey!) 
Reminds me of you, 

To-day, in my ride, I’ve been crowning 
The beacon ; its magic still lures, 

For there you discoursed about Browning, 
That stupid old Browning of yours. 

His vogue and his verve are alarming, 

I’m anxious to give him his due; 

But, Fred, he’s not nearly so charming 
A poet as you. 

I heard how you shot at The Beeches, 

I saw how you rode Chanticleer, 

I have read the report of your speeches, 
And echoed the echoing cheer. 

There’s a whisper of hearts you are break 
ing — 

I envy their owners, I do ! 

Small marvel that Fortune is making 
Her idol of you. 

Alas for the world, and its dearly- 
Bouglit triumph, and fugitive bliss! 
Sometimes I half wish I were merely 
A plain or a penniless miss; 

But perhaps one is best with a measure 
Of pelf, and I’m not sorry, too, 

That I’m pretty, because it’s a pleasure, 

My dearest, to you. 

Your whim is for frolic and fashion, 

Your taste is for letters and art; 









POEMS OF LOVE. 


203 


This rhyme is the commonplace passion 
That glows in a fond woman’s heart. 
Lay it by in a dainty deposit 
For relics,—we all have a few!— 

Love, some day they’ll print it, because it 
Was written to you. 

Frederick Locker. 

My only .jo and Dearie, 0. 
Thy cheek is o’ the rose’s hue, 

My only jo and dearie, O; 

Thy neck is like the siller dew 
Upon the banks sae briery, 0 ; 

Thy teeth are o’ the ivory, 

Oh, sweet’s the twinkle o’ thine ee ! 

Nae joy, nae pleasure, blinks on me, 
My only jo and dearie, O. 

The birdie sings upon the thorn 
Its sang o’ joy, fu’ cheerie, O, 
Rejoicing in the summer morn, 

Nae care to make it eerie, O ; 

But little kens the sangster sweet 
Aught o’ the cares I hae to meet, 

That gar my restless bosom beat, 

My only jo and dearie, 0. 

Whan we were bairnies on yon brae, 
And youth was blinking bonny, 0, 
Aft we wad daff the lee-lang day. 

Our joys fu’ sweet and mony, 0 ; 

Aft I wad chase thee o’er the lee, 

And round about the thorny tree, 

Or pu’ the wild-flowers a’ for thee, 

My only jo and dearie, O. 

I hae a wish I canna tine 
’Mang a’ the cares that grieve me, O; 

I wish thou wert for ever mine, 

And never mair to leave me, O: 

Then I wad daut thee night and day, 
Nor ither warldly care wad hae, 

Till life’s warm stream forgot to play, 
My only jo and dearie, O. 

Richard Gall. 

Lilian. 

Airy, fairy Lilian, 

Flitting, fairy Lilian, 

When I ask her if she love me, 

Clasps her tiny hands above me, 
Laughing all she can : 

She'll not tell me if she love me, 

Cruel little Lilian. 


When my passion seeks 
Pleasance in love-sighs, 

She, looking thro’ and thro’ me 
Thoroughly to undo me, 

Smiling, never speaks: 

So innocent-arch, so cunning-simple, 
From beneath her gather’d wimple 
Glancing with black-beaded eyes, 

Till the lightning laughters dimple 
The baby-roses in her cheeks ; 

Then away she flies. 

Prythee weep, May Lilian ! 

Gayety without eclipse 
Wearieth me, May Lilian: 

Thro’ my very heart it thrilleth 
When from crimson-threaded lips 
Silver-treble laughter trilleth: 

Prythee weep, May Lilian. 

Praying all I can, 

If prayers will not hush thee, 

Airy Lilian, 

Like a rose-leaf I will crush thee, 

Fairy Lilian. 

Alfred Tennyson- 

Love and Death. 

Glories, pleasures, pomps, delights, and 
ease, 

Can but please 

The outward senses, when the mind 
Is or untroubled, or by peace refined. 
Crowns may flourish and decay, 

Beauties shine, but fade away. 

Youth may revel, yet it must 
J Lie down in a bed of dust, 
j Earthly honors flow and waste, 

Time alone doth change and last. 

' Sorrows mingled with contents, prepare 
Rest for care; 

j Love only reigns in death ; though art 
Can find no comfort for a broken heart. 

John Ford. 

Langley Lane. 

In all the land, range up, range dow r n, 

Is there ever a place so pleasant and 
sw r eet 

As Langley Lane, in London town, 

Just out of the bustle of square and 
street? 






204 


FIRESIDE ENCYCLOPAEDIA OF POETRY. 


Little white cottages, all in a row, 
Gardens, where bachelors’-buttons grow, 
Swallows’ nests in roof and wall, 

And up above the still blue sky, 

Where the woollv-white clouds go sailing 
by,— 

T seem to be able to see it all! 

For now, in summer, I take my chair, 

And sit outside in the sun, and hear 
The distant murmur of street and square, 
And the swallows and sparrows chirping 
near; 

And Fanny, who lives just over the way, 
Comes running many a time each day, 
With her little hand’s-touch so warm 
and kind; 

And I smile and talk, with the sun on my 
cheek, 

And the little live hand seems to stir and 
speak,— 

For Fanny is dumb and I am blind. 

Fanny is sweet thirteen, and she 

Has tine black ringlets, and dark eyes 
clear, 

And l am older by summers three,— 

Why should we hold one another so 
dear? 

Because she cannot utter a word, 

Nor hear the music of bee or bird, 

The water-cart’s splash, or the milkman’s 
call. 

Because 1 have never seen the sky, 

Nor the little singers that hum and fly,— 
Yet know she is gazing upon them all. 

For the sun is shining, the swallows fly, 
The bees and the blue-flies murmur low, 
And I hear the water-cart go by, 

With its cool splash-splash down the 
dusty row; 

And the little one, close at mv side, per¬ 
ceives 

Aline eyes upraised to the cottage eaves, 
Where birds are chirping in summer 
shine, 

And I hear, though I cannot look, and 
she, 

Though she cannot hear, can the singers 
see,— 

And the little, soft fingers flutter in 


Hath not the dear little hand a tongue, 

When it stirs on my palm for the love of 
me ? 

Do I not know she is pretty and young? 

Hath not my soul an eye to see? 

’Tis pleasure to make one’s bosom stir, 

To wonder how things appear to her, 

That I only hear as they pass around ; 

And as long as we sit in the music and 
light, 

She is happy to keep God’s sight, 

And I am happy to keep God’s sound. 

Why, I know her face, though I am 
blind— 

I made it of music long ago : 

Strange large eyes, and dark hair twined 

Bound the pensive light of a brow of 
snow; 

And when I sit by my little one, 

And hold her hand, and talk in the sun. 

And hear the music that haunts the 
place, 

I know she is raising her eyes to me, 

And guessing how gentle my voice must 
be, 

And seeing the music upon my face. 

Though, if ever Lord God should grant 
me a prayer 

(I know the fancy is only vain), 

I should pray: Just once, when the weather 
is fair, 

To see little Fanny and Langley Lane; 

Though Fanny, perhaps, would pray t<> 
hear 

The voice of the friend that she holds so 
dear, 

The song of the birds, the hum of the 
street,— 

It is better to be as we have been,— 

Each keeping up something, unheard, un¬ 
seen, 

To make God’s heaven more strange and 
sweet. 

Ah ! life is pleasant in Langley Lane! 

There is always something sweet to 
hear! 

Chirping of birds, or patter of rain; 


mine. 





POEMS OF LOVE. 


205 


And though T am weak, and cannot live 
long, 

And Fanny, my darling, is far from strong, 
And though we can never married be,— 
What then?—since we hold one another so 
dear, 

For the sake of the pleasure one cannot 
hear, 

And the pleasure that only one can see ? 

Robert Buchanan. 

A Pastoral Ballad. 

IN FOUR PARTS. 

I. Absence. 

Ye shepherds so cheerful and gay, 

Whose flocks never carelessly roam ; 
Should Corydon’s happen to stray, 

Oh call the poor wanderers home. 

Allow me to muse and to sigh, 

Nor talk of the change that ye find ; 
None once was so watchful as I: 

1 have left my dear Phillis behind. 

Now I know what it is, to have strove 
With the torture of doubt and desire ; 
What it is, to admire and to love, 

And to leave her we love and admire. 
Ah lead forth my flock in the morn, 

And the damps of each ev’ning repel ; 
Alas! I am faint and forlorn : 

I have bade my dear Phyllis farewell. 

Since Phillis vouchsafed me a look, 

I never once dreamt of my vine; 

May I lose both my pipe and my crook, 

If I knew of a kid that was mine. 

I prized every hour that went by, 

Beyond all that had pleased me before; 
But now they are past, and I sigh; 

And I grieve that I prized them no more. 

But why do I languish in vain? 

Why wander thus pensively here? 

Oh, why did I come from the plain, 

Where I fed on the smiles of my dear ? 
They tell me my favorite maid, 

The pride of that valley, is flown; 

Alas! where with her I have stray’d, 

I could wander with pleasure, alone. 

When forced the fair nymph to forego, 
What anguish I felt at my heart! 


Yet 1 thought—but it might not be so— 
’Twas with pain that she saw me depart. 

She gazed, as 1 slowly withdrew; 

My path I could hardly discern ; 

So sweetly she bade me adieu, 

I thought that she bade me return. 

The pilgrim that journeys all day 
To visit some far-distant shrine, 

If he bear but a relic away, 

Is happy, nor heard to repine. 

Thus widely removed from the fair, 

Where my vows, my devotion, I owe, 

Soft hope is the relic 1 bear, 
j And my solace wherever I go. 

II. Hope. 

My banks they are furnish’d with bees, 
Whose murmur invites one to sleep ; 

My grottos are shaded with t rees, 

And my hills are white-over with sheep. 

I seldom have met with a loss, 

Such health do my fountains bestow— 

| My fountains all border’d with moss, 
Where the harebells and violets grow. 

Not a pine in my grove is there seen, 

But with tendrils of woodbine is bound : 
* Not a beech’s more beautiful green, 

But a sweetbrier entwines it around. 

Not my fields, in the prime of the year, 
More charms than my cattle unfold : 

Not a brook that is limpid and clear, 

But it glitters with fishes of gold. 

One would think she might like to retire 
To the bow’r I have labor’d to rear; 

Not a shrub that I heard her admire, 

But I hasted and planted it there. 

Oh how sudden the jessamine strove 
With the lilac to render it gay ! 

Already it calls for my love, 

To prune the wild branches away. 

From the plains, from the woodlands and 
groves, 

What strains of wild melody flow? 

How the nightingales warble their loves 
From the thickets of roses that blow ! 

And when her bright form shall appear, 
Each bird shall harmoniously join 

In a concert so soft and so clear, 

| As—she may not be fond to resign. 







206 


FIRESIDE ENCYCLOPAEDIA OF POETRY. 


I have found out a gift for my fair; 

I have found where the wood-pigeons 
breed: 

But let me that plunder forbear, 

She will say ’twas a barbarous deed. 

For he ne’er could be true, she averr’d, 
Who could rob a poor bird of its young; 
And I loved her the more, when I heard 
Such tenderness fall from her tongue. 

I have heard her with sweetness unfold 
How that pity was due to—a dove : 

That it ever attended the bold, 

And she called it the sister of Love. 

But her words such a pleasure convey, 

So much I her accents adore, 

Let her speak, and whatever she say, 
Methinks I should love her the more. j 

Can a bosom so gentle remain 

Unmoved when her Corydon sighs? 

Will a nymph that is fond of the plain. 
These plains and this valley despise ? 
Dear regions of silence and shade! 

Soft scenes of contentment and ease ! 
Where I could have pleasingly stray’d, 

If aught, in her absence, could please. 

But where does my Phyllida stray ? 

And where are her grots and her bo’wrs ? 
Are the groves and the valleys as gay, 

And the shepherds as gentle as ours? 

The groves may perhaps be as fair, 

And the face of the valleys as fine; 

The swains may in manners compare, 

But their love is not equal to mine. 

III. Solicitude. 

Why will you my passion reprove ? 

Why term it a folly to grieve ? 

Ere I show you the charms of my love, 

She is fairer than you can believe. 

With her mien she enamors the brave; 

With her wit she engages the free; 

With her modesty pleases the grave; 

She is ev’ry way pleasing to me. 

O you that have been of her train, 

Come and join in my amorous lays ; 

I could lay down my life for the swain 
That will sing but a song in her praise. 


When he sings, may the nymphs of th« 
town 

Come trooping, and listen the while; 
Nay, on him let not Phyllida frown ; 

—But I cannot allow her to smile. 

For when Paridel tries in the dance 
Any favor with Phyllis to find, 

Oh how, with one trivial glance, 

Might she ruin the peace of my mind ! 
In ringlets he dresses his hair, 

And his crook is bestudded around ; 

And his pipe—oh may Phyllis beware 
Of a magic there is in the sound! 

’Tis his with mock passion to glow ; 

’Tis his in smooth tales to unfold, 

“ How her face is as bright as the snow. 
And her bosom, be sure, is as cold ! 

How the nightingales labor the strain, 
With the notes of his charmer to vie; 
How they vary their accents in vain, 
Repine at her triumphs, and die.” 

To the grove or the garden he strays, 

And pillages every sweet; 

Then, suiting the wreath to his lays, 

He throws it at Phyllis’s feet. 

“ O Phyllis,” he whispers, “ more fair, 
More sweet than the jessamine’s flow’r ' 
What are pinks, in a morn, to compare? 
What is eglantine, after a show’r? 

“ Then the lily no longer is white, 

Then the rose is deprived of its bloom, 
Then the violets die with despite, 

And the woodbines give up their per¬ 
fume.” 

Thus glide the soft numbers along, 

And he fancies no shepherd his peer, 
Yet I never should envy the song, 

Were not Phyllis to lend it an ear. 

Let his crook be with hyacinths bound, 

So Phyllis the trophy despise; 

Let his forehead with laurels be crown d 
So they shine not in Phyllis’s eyes. 

The language that flows from the heart 
Is a stranger to Paridel’s tongue, 

Yet may she beware of his art, 

Or sure I must envy the song. 







POEMS OF LOVE. 


207 


IV. Disappointment. 

Ye shepherds, give ear to my lay, 

And take no more heed of my sheep ; 
They have nothing to do but to stray,— 

I have nothing to do but to weep. 

Yet do not my folly reprove; 

She was fair—and my passion begun ; 
She smiled—and I could not but love; 

She is faithless—and I am undone. 

Perhaps I was void of all thought; 

Perhaps it was plain to foresee, 

That a nymph so complete would be 
sought 

By a swain more engaging than me. 

Ah ! love every hope can inspire; 

It banishes wisdom the while, 

And the lip of the nymph we admire 
Seems for ever adorn’d with a smile. 

She is faithless, and I am undone; 

Ye that witness the woes I endure, 

Let reason instruct you to shun 

What it cannot instruct you to cure. 
Beware how ye loiter in vain 
Amid nymphs of a higher degree ; 

It is not for me to explain 

How fair and how fickle they be. 

Alas! from the day that we met, 

What hope of an end to my woes, 

When I cannot endure to forget 
The glance that undid my repose ? 

Yet time may diminish the pain; 

The flow’r, and the shrub, and the tree, 
Which I rear’d for her pleasure in vain, 

In time may have comfort for me. 

The sweets of a dew-sprinkled rose, 

The sound of a murmuring stream, 

The peace which from solitude flows, 
Henceforth shall be Corydon’s theme. 
High transports are shown to the sight, 
But we are not to find them our own ; 
Fate never bestow’d such delight 
As I with my Phyllis had known. 

O ye woods, spread your branches apace; 

To your deepest recesses I fly ; 

I would hide with the beasts of the chase; 
I would vanish from every eye. 


Yet my reed shall resound thro’ the 
grove 

With the same sad complaint it begun; 
How she smiled, and I could not but 
love; 

Was faithless, and I am undone! 

• William Shenstonk. 

Her Letter. 

I’m sitting alone by the fire, 

Dress’d just as I came from the dance, 
In a robe even you would admire— 

It cost a cool thousand in France ; 

I’m be-diamonded out of all reason, 

My hair is done up in a cue: 

In short, sir, “ the belle of the season ” 

Is wasting an hour on you. 

A dozen engagements I’ve broken ; 

I left in the midst of a set; 

Likewise a proposal, half spoken, 

That waits—on the stairs—for me yet. 
They say he’ll be rich—when he grows 
up— 

And then he adores me indeed; 

And you, sir, are turning your nose up, 
Three thousand miles off, as you read. 

“ And how do I like my position ?” 

“And what do I think of New York 9 ” 

“ And now, in my higher ambition, 

With whom do I waltz, flirt, or talk?” 

“ Add isn’t it nice to have riches, 

And diamonds and silks, and all 
that?” 

“ And aren’t it a change to the ditches 
And tunnels of Poverty Flat?” 

Well, yes—if you saw us out driving 
Each day in the park, four-in-hand— 

If you saw poor dear mamma contriving 
To look supernaturally grand— 

If you saw papa’s picture, as taken 
By Brady, and tinted at that,— 

You’d never suspect he sold bacon 
And flour at Poverty Flat. 

And yet just this moment, when sitting 
In the glare of the grand chandelier— 
In the bustle and glitter befitting 
The “ finest soiree of the year,” 














208 


FIRESIDE ENCYCLOPEDIA OF POETRY. 


In the mists of a yazc de Chambery, 

And the hum of the smallest of talk— 
Somehow, Joe, I thought of the “Ferry,” 
And the dance that we had on “ The 
Fork 

Of Harrison’s barn, with its muster 
Of flags festoon’d over the wall; 

Of the candles that shed their soft lustre 
And tallow on head-dress and shawl; 

Of the steps that we took to one fiddle ; 

Of the dress of my queer vis-a-vis, 

And how-I once went down the middle 
With the man that shot Sandy McGee ; 

Of the moon that was quietly sleeping 
On the hill, when the time came to go ; 
Of the few baby peaks that were peeping 
From under their bedclothes of snow ; 
Of that ride—that to me was the rarest; 

Of—the something you said at the gate : 
Ah, Joe, then I wasn’t an heiress 
To “ the best-paying lead in the State.” 

Well, well, it’s all past; yet it’s funny 
To think, as I stood in the glare 
Of fashion and beauty and money, 

That I should be thinking, right there, 
Of some one who breasted high water, 

And swam the North Fork, and all that, 
Just to dance with old Folinsbee’s daugh¬ 
ter, 

The Lily of Poverty Flat. 

Put goodness! what nonsense I’m writing! 

(Mamma says my taste still is low), 
Instead of my triumphs reciting, 

I’m spooning on Joseph—heigh-lio! 

And I’m to be “finish’d” by travel— 
Whatever’s the meaning of that— 

Oh, why did papa strike pay gravel 
In drifting on Poverty Flat? 

Good-night— here’s the end of my paper ; 

Good-night—if the longitude please— 
For maybe, while wasting my taper, 

Your sun’s climbing over the trees. 

But know, if you haven’t got riches, 

And are poor, dearest Joe, and all that, 
That my heart’s somewhere there in the 
ditches, 

And you’ve struck it—on Poverty Flat. 

F. Rrkt Harte. 


My love. 

Not as all other women are 
Is she that to my soul is dear; 

Her glorious fancies come from far, 
Beneath the silver evening-star; 

And yet her breast is ever near. 

I Great feelings hath she of her own, 
j Which lesser souls may never know; 

! God giveth them to her alone, 

| And sweet they are as any tone 

Wherewith the wind may choose to blow 

i Yet in herself she dwelleth not. 

Although no home were half so fair; 
No simplest duty is forgot ; 

Life hath no dim and lowly spot 
That doth not in her sunshine share. 

She doeth little kindnesses, 

Which most leave undone or despise; 
For naught that sets one heart at ease, 
And giveth happiness or peace, 

Is low-esteemfed in her eyes. 

She hath no scorn of common things; 

And, though she seem of other birth. 
Round us her heart entwines and clings 
And patiently she folds her wings 
To tread the humble paths of earth. 

Blessing she is; God made her so ; 

And deeds of week-day holiness 
Fall from her noiseless as the snow ; 

Nor hath she ever chanced to know 
That aught were easier than to bles* 

She is most fair, and thereunto 
Her life doth rightly harmonize; 
Feeling or thought that was not true 
Ne’er made less beautiful the blue, 
Unclouded heaven of her eyes. 

She is a woman—one in whom 
The spring-time of her childish years 
Hath never lost its fresh perfume, 

Though knowing well that life hath room 
For many blights and many tears. 

I love her with a love as still 
As a broad river’s peaceful might, 
Which, by high tower and lowly mill. 
Goes wandering at its own will, 

And yet doth ever flow aright. 








POEMS OF LOVE. 


And, on its full, deep breast serene, 

Like cpiiet isles, my duties lie; 
ft flows around them and between, 

And makes them fresh and fair and green— 
Sweet homes wherein to live and die. 

James Russell Lowell. 


The bridal of and all a. 

“ Risk up, rise up, Xarifa! lay the golden 
cushion down; 

Rise up, come to the window, and gaze 
with all the town! 

From gay guitar and violin the silver notes 
are flowing, 

And the lovely lute doth speak between 
the trumpet’s lordly blowing, 

And banners bright from lattice light are 
waving everywhere, 

And the tall, tall plume of our cousin’s 
bridegroom floats proudly in the air. 

Rise up, rise up, Xarifa! lay the golden 
cushion down; 

Rise up, come to the window, and gaze 
with all the town! 

“ Arise, arise, Xarifa! I see Andalla’s 
face— 

He bends him to the people with a calm 
and princely grace; 

Through all the land of Xeres and banks 
of Guadalquiver 

Rode forth bridegroom so brave as he, so 
brave and lovely, never. 

Yon tall plume waving o’er his brow, of ! 
purple mixed with white, 

I guess ’twas wreath’d by Zara, whom he 
will wed to-night. 

Rise up, rise up, Xarifa! lay the golden 
cushion down; 

Rise up, come to the window, and gaze 
with all the town! 

“ What aileth thee, Xarifa—what makes 
thine eves look down ? 

Why stay ye from the window far, nor 
gaze with all the town? 

I’ve heard you say on many a day—and 
sure you said the truth— 

Andalla rides without a peer among all 
Granada’s youth: 

14 


200 

Without a peer he rideth, and yon milk- 
white horse doth go 

Beneath his stately master with a stately 
step and slow:— 

Then rise—oh rise, Xarifa, lay the golden 
cushion down; 

i Unseen here through the lattice you may 
gaze with all the town!” 

| The Zegri lady rose not, nor laid het 
cushion down, 

Nor came she to the window to gaze with 
all the town; 

But though her eyes dwelt on her knee, in 
vain her Angers strove, 

And though her needle press’d the silk, 
no flower Xarifa wove; 

One bonny rosebud she had traced before 
the noise drew nigh— 

That bonny bud a tear effaced, slow droop¬ 
ing from her eye— 

“No—no!” she sighs—“bid me not rise, 
nor lay my cushion down, 

To gaze upon Andalla with all the gazing 
town!” 

“ Why rise ye not, Xarifa, nor lay your 
cushion down? 

' Why gaze ye not, Xarifa, with all the 
gazing town? 

Hear, hear the trumpet how it swells, and 
how the people cry; 

i He stops at Zara’s palace-gate—why sit ye 
still—oh, why?” 

—“At Zara’s gate stops Zara’s mate; in 
him shall I discover 

The dark-eyed youth pledged me his truth 
with tears, and was my lover? 

I will not rise, with weary eyes, nor lay 
my cushion down, 

To gaze on false Andalla with all the gaz¬ 
ing town!” 

From the Spanish. 

John Gibson Lockhart 


Ka thleen Ma vovrneen. 

Kathleen Mavourneen! the gray dawn 
is breaking, 

The horn of the hunter is heard on the 
hill, 









210 


FIRESIDE ENCYCLOPAEDIA OF POETRY. 


The lark from her light wing the bright ! 
dew is shaking, 

Kathleen Mavourneen! what, slumber¬ 
ing still? 

Oh hast thou forgotten how soon we must 
sever ? 

Oh, hast thou forgotten, this day, we 
must part? 

It may be for years, and it may be for ever, 

Oh, why art thou silent, thou voice of 
my heart? 

Kathleen Mavourneen! awake from thy 
slumbers, 

The blue mountains glow in the sun’s 
golden light; 

Ah ! where is the spell that once hung on 
my numbers! 

Arise in thy beauty, thou star of my 
night. 

Mavourneen, Mavourneen, my sad tears are 
falling, 

To think that from Erin and thee I must 
part; 

It may be for years, and it may be for ever ! 

Then why art thou silent, thou voice of 
my heart? 

Anna (Barry) Crawford. 


TO DlANEME. 

Sweet, be not proud of those two eyes, 
Which, star-like, sparkle in their skies; 
Nor be you proud, that you can see 
All hearts your captives, yours yet free ; 
Be you not proud of that rich haire, 
Which wantons with the love-sick aire; 
When as that rubie which you weare, 
Sunk from the tip of your soft eare, 

Will last to be a precious stone, 

When all your world of beautie’s gone. 

Robert Herrick. 

The Maiden's Choice. 

Genteel in personage, 

Conduct and equipage; 

Noble by heritage; 

Generous and free; 

Brave, not romantic; 

Beam’d, not pedantic; 


Frolic, not frantic— 

This must he be. 

Honor maintaining, 

Meanness disdaining, 

Still entertaining, 

Engaging, and new; 

Neat, but not finical; 

Sage, but not cynical; 

Never tyrannical, 

But ever true, 

Henry Carey 

Lady Clara Vere de Verb. 

Lady Clara Vere de Vere, 

Of me you shrill not win renown ; 

You thought to break a country heart 
For pastime, ere you went to town. 

At me you smiled, but unbeguiled 
I saw the snare, and I retired : 

The daughter of a hundred Earls, 

You are not one to be desired. 

Lady Clara Vere de Vere, 

I know you proud to bear your name, 
Your pride is yet no mate for mine, 

Too proud to care from whence I came. 
Nor would I break for your sweet sake 
A heart that doats on truer charms. 

A simple maiden in her flower 
Is worth a hundred coats-of-arms. 

Lady Clara Vere de Vere, 

Some meeker pupil you must find, 

For were you queen of all that is, 

I could not stoop to such a mind. 

You sought to prove how I could love, 
And my disdain is my reply. 

The lion on your old stone gates 
Is not more cold to you than I, 

Lady Clara Vere de Vere, 

You put strange memories in my head. 

: Not thrice your branching limes have 
blown 

Since I beheld young Laurence dead. 

I Oh, your sweet eyes, your low replies: 

A great enchantress you may be; 

But there was that across his throat 
Which you had hardly cared to see. 









POEMS OF LOVE. 


211 


Lady Clara Vere de Vere, 

When thus he met his mother’s view, 

She had the passions of her kind, 

She spake some certain truths of you. 

1 ndeed, I heard one bitter word 
That scarce is tit for you to hear; 

Her manners had not that repose 

Which stamps the caste of Vere de Vere. 

Lady Clara Vere de Vere, 

There stands a spectre in your hall: 

The guilt of blood is at your door : 

You changed a wholesome heart to gall. 

You held your course without remorse, 

To make him trust his modest worth, 

A nd, last, you fixed a vacant stare, 

And slew him with your noble birth. 

Trust me, Clara Vere de Vere, 

From yon blue heavens above us bent, 

The grand old gardener and his wife 
Smile at the claims of long descent. 

Howe’er it be, it seems to me, 

’Tis only noble to be good. 

Kind hearts are more than coronets, 

And simple faith than Norman blood. 

I know you, Clara Vere de Vere : 

You pine among your halls and towers: 

The languid light of your proud eyes 
Is wearied of the rolling hours. 

In glowing health, with boundless wealth, 
But sickening of a vague disease, 

You know so ill to deal with time, 

You needs must play such pranks as these. 

Clara, Clara Vere de Vere, 

If time be heavy on your hands, 

Are there no beggars at your gate, 

Nor any poor about your lands? 

Oh teach the orphan boy to read, 

Or teach the orphan girl to sew, 

Pray heaven for a human heart, 

And let the foolish yeoman go. 

Alfred Tennyson. 

At the Church Gate. 

Although I enter not, 

Yet round about the spot 
Ofttimes I hover; 

And near the sacred gate, 

With longing eyes I wait, 
Expectant of her. 


The minster bell tolls out 
Above the city’s rout, 

And noise and humming; 
They’ve hush’d the minster bell: 
The organ ’gins to swell: 

She’s coming, she’s coming ! 

My lady comes at last, 

Timid, and stepping fast, 

And hastening hither, 

With modest eyes downcast: 

She comes—she’s here—she’s past— 
May Heaven go with her ! 

Kneel undisturb’d, fair saint! 

Pour out your praise or plaint 
Meekly and duly; 

I will not enter there, . 

To sully your pure prayer 
With thoughts unruly. 

But suffer me to pace 
Round the forbidden place, 
Lingering a minute, 

Like outcast spirits who wait 
And see through heaven’s gate 
Angels within it. 

William Makepeace Thackeray. 

In a Year. 

Never any more 
While I live, 

Need I hope to see his face 
As before. 

Once his love grown chill, 

Mine may strive,— 

Bitterly we re-embrace, 

Single still. 

Was it something said, 

Something done, 

Vex’d him? was it touch of hand, 
Turn of head ? 

Strange ! that very way 
Love begun. 

I as little understand 
Love’s decay. 

When I sew’d or drew, 

I recall 

How he look’d as if I sang 
—Sweetly too. 





FIRESIDE ENCYCLOPAEDIA OF POETRY. 


If I spoke a word, 

First of all 

Up his cheek the color sprang, 

Then he heard. 

Bitting by my side, 

At my feet, 

So he breathed the air I breathed, 
Satisfied! 

I, too, at love’s brim 

Touch’d the sweet. 

I would die if death bequeath’d 
Sweet to him. 

‘ Speak,—I love thee best!” 

He exclaim’d,— 

' Let thy love my own foretell.” 

I confess’d : 

‘ Clasp my heart on thine 
Now unblamed, 

Since upon thy soul as well 
Hangeth mine!” 

Was it wrong to own, 

Being truth ? 

Why should all the giving prove 
His alone? 

I had wealth and ease, 

Beauty, youth,— 

Since my lover gave me love, 

I gave these. 

That was all I meant, 

—To be just, 

And the passion I had raised 
To content. 

Since he chose to change 
Gold for dust, 

If I gave him what he praised, 

Was it strange? 

Would he loved me yet, 

On and on, 

While I found some way undream’d, 
—Paid my debt! 

Gave more life and more, 

Till, all gone, 

He should smile, “ She never seem’d 
Mine before. 

‘ What—she felt the while, 

Must I think? 

Love’s so different with us men,” 

He should smile. 


“ Dying for my sake— 

White and pink ! 

Can’t we touch these bubbles then 
But they break ?” 

Dear, the pang is brief. 

Do thy part. 

Have thy pleasure. How perplext 
Grows belief? 

Well, this cold clay clod 
Was man’s heart. 

Crumble it,—and what comes next ? 

Is it God ? 

Robert Rrownino. 

Song. 

Lay a garland on my hearse 
Of the dismal yew: 

Maidens, willow branches bear; 

Say I died true. 

My love was false, but I was firm, 
From my hour of birth ; 

Upon my buried body, lie 
Lightly, gentle earth! 

Beaumont and Fletcher 

Sonnet. 

To live in hell, and heaven to behold, 

To welcome life, and die a living death. 

To sweat with heat, and yet be freezing 
cold, 

To grasp at stars, and lie the earth be¬ 
neath, 

To tread a maze that never shall have end. 
To burn in sighs, and starve in daily 
tears, 

To climb a hill, and never to descend, 
Giants to kill, and quake at childish 
fears, 

To pine for food, and watch the Hesperian 
tree, 

To thirst for drink, and nectar still to 
draw, 

To live accursed, whom men hold blest to 
be, 

And weep those wrongs, which never 
creatu re saw; 

If this be love, if love in these be founded, 

My heart is love, for these in it are 
grounded. 

Henry Constable. 






Four has he hurt, and five has slain, 

On the bonnie braes of Yarrow .”—Page 384. 











LADY CLARA VERE DE VERE 

“ You thought to break a country heart for pastime ere you went to town.” 

Page 210. 





POEMS OF LOVE. 


213 


1IIa ve Something Sweet to Tell 

You. 

I have something sweet to tell you, 
But the secret you must keep ; 

And remember, if it isn’t right, 

I’m “ talking in my sleep.” 

For I know I am but dreaming, 

When T think your love is mine; 

And T know they are but seeming, 

All the hopes that round me shine. 

So remember, when I tell you 
What I cannot longer keep, 

We are none of us responsible 
For what we say in sleep. 


A kiss I then gave her—before I did leave 
her 

She vowed for such pleasure she’d break 
it again. 

’Twas hay-making season, 1 can’t tell the 
reason, 

Misfortunes will never come single— 
that’s plain, 

For very soon after poor Kitty’s disaster, 

The devil a pitcher was whole in Cole¬ 
raine. 

Anonymous. 

Eileen a Roon. 


My pretty secret’s coming ! 

O, listen with your heart; 

And you shall hear it humming, 

So close ’twill make you start. 

(), shut your eyes so earnest, 

Or mine will wildly weep; 

I love you ! I adore you! but— 

“ I’m talking in my sleep !” 

Francks Sargent Osgood. 


Kitty of Coleraine. 

As beautiful Kitty one morning was trip¬ 
ping 

With a pitcher of milk from the fair of 
Coleraine, 

' # | 

When she saw me she stumbled, the pitcher 

it tumbled, 

i 

And all the sweet buttermilk watered 
the plain. 

“ O, what shall I do now? ’twas looking at [ 
you now! 

Sure, sure, such a pitcher I’ll ne’er meet 
again, 

’Twas the pride of my dairy, O Barney 
M’ Leary, 

You’re sent as a plague to the girls of 
Coleraine.” 

I sat down beside her, and gently did chide 
her 

That such a misfortune should give her 
such pain, 


I’ll love thee evermore, 

Eileen a Roon! 

I’ll bless thee o’er and o’er, 

Eileen a Roon! 

O, for thy sake I’ll tread, 

Where the plains of Mayo spread; 
By hope still fondly led, 

Eileen a Roon ! 

0, how may I gain thee ; 

Eileen a Roon! 

Shall feasting entertain thee? 

Eileen a Roon! 

I would range the world wide, 

With love alone to guide, 

To win thee for my bride, 

Eileen a Roon! 

Then wilt thou come away ? 

Eileen a Roon! 

O, wilt thou come or stay ? 

Eileen a Roon ! 

O yes ! 0 yes! with thee 
I will wander far and free, 

And thy only love shall be 
Eileen a Roon! 

A hundred thousand welcomes, 
Eileen a Roon! 

A hundred thousand welcomes, 
Eileen a Roon! 

O, welcome evermore, 

With welcomes yet in store, 

Till love and life are o’er, 

Eileen a Roon ! 

Carol O’Daly. 
* F.llen, my heart's delight. 










214 


FIRESIDE ENCYCLOPAEDIA OF POETRY. 


Sixteen. 

In Clementina’s artless mien 

Lucilla asks me what I see,— 

And are the roses of sixteen 
Enough for me? 

Lucilla asks, if that be all, 

Have I not cull’d as sweet before? 

Ah yes, Lucilla! and their fall 
I still deplore. 

I now' behold another scene, 

Where pleasure beams with heaven’s 
own light,— 

More pure, more constant, more serene, 
And not less bright: 

Faith, on whose breast the Loves repose, 
Whose chain of flow'ers no force can 
sever; 

And Modesty, who, when she goes, 

Is gone for ever. 

.Walter Savage Landor. 


Com in ’ Through the Rye. 

Gin a body meet a body 
Cornin’ through the rye, 

Gin a body kiss a body, 

Need a body cry? 

Every lassie has her laddie— 

Ne’er a ane hae I; 

Yet a’ the lads they smile at me 
When cornin’ through the rye. 

Amang the train there is a swain 
I dearly lo’e mysel’; 

But w'haur his hame, or what his name, 
I dinna care to tell. 

Gin a body meet a body 
Coinin’ frae the town, 

Gin a body greet a body, 

Need a body frown? 

Every lassie has her laddie— 

Ne’er a ane hae I; 

Yet a’ the lads they smile at me 
When coinin’ through the rye. 

Amang the train there is a swain 
I dearly lo’e mysel’; 

But w'haur his hame, or w'hat his name, 
1 dinna care to tell. 

Author Unknown. 


Cherry-Ripe. 

Cherry-ripe, ripe, ripe, I cry, 

Full and fair ones; come and buy; 

If so be you ask me where 
They do grow, I answer, there, 

Where my Julia’s lips do smile, 
There’s the land, or cherry isle, 

Whose plantations fully show 
All the year where cherries grow. 

Robert Herrick. 

The White Rose. 

SENT BY A YORKISH LOVER TO HIS LANCAS¬ 
TRIAN MISTRESS. 

If this fair rose offend thy sight, 
Placed in thy bosom bare, 

’Twill blush to find itself less white, 
And turn Lancastrian there. 

But if thy ruby lip it spy, 

As kiss it thou mayst deign, 

With envy pale ’twill lose its dye, 

And Yorkish turn again. 

Author Unknown. 

The Primrose. 

Ask me why I send you here 
This sweet Infanta of the year ? 

Ask me why I send to you 

This primrose, thus bepearl’d wdtli dew? 

I will whisper to your ears, 

The sw r eets of love are mixt with tears 

Ask me why this flower does show 
So yellow'-green, and sickly, too ? 

Ask me why the stalk is weak 
And bending, yet it doth not break ? 

I will answer: these discover 
What fainting hopes are in a lover. 

Robert Herrick. 


Love and Age. 

I play’d with you ’mid cowslips blowing, 
When I was six and you were four; 
When garlands weaving, flower-balls 
throwing, 

Were pleasures soon to please no more. 





POEMS OF LOVE. 


21 r, 


Through groves and meads, o’er grass and 
heather, 

With little playmates, to and fro, 

We wander’d hand in hand together; 

But that was sixty years ago. 

You grew a lovely roseate maiden, 

And still our early love was strong; 

Still with no care our days were laden, 
They glided joyously along; 

And I did love you very dearly, 

How dearly words want power to show; 

I thought your heart was touch’d as 
nearly; 

But that was fifty years ago. 

Then other lovers came around you, 

Your beauty grew from year to year, 
And many a splendid circle found you 
The centre of its glittering sphere. 

I saw you then, first vows forsaking. 

On rank and wealth your hand bestow; 
O, then I thought my heart was break¬ 
ing !— 

But that was forty years ago. 

And I lived on, to wed another: 

No cause she gave me to repine; 

And when I heard you were a mother, 

I did not wish the children mine. 

My own young flock, in fair progression, 
Made up a pleasant Christmas row : 

My joy in them was past expression ; 

But that was thirty years ago. 

You grew a matron plump and comely, 
You dwelt in fashion’s brightest blaze ; 
My earthly lot was far more homely; 

But I too had my festal days. 

No merrier eyes have ever glisten’d 
Around the hearth-stone’s wintry glow, 
Than when my youngest child was christ¬ 
en’d ; 

But that was twenty years ago. 

Time pass’d. My eldest girl was married, 
And I am now a grandsire gray ; 

One pet of four years old I’ve carried 
Among the wild-flower’d meads to play. 
In our old fields of childish pleasure, 
Where now, as then, the cowslips blow, 
She fills her basket’s ample measure; 

And that is not ten years ago. 


But though first love’s impassion’d blind¬ 
ness 

Has pass’d away in colder light, 

I still have thought of you with kindness, 
And shall do, till our last good-night. 
The ever-rolling silent hours 
Will bring a time we shall not know, 
When our young days of gathering flowers 
Will be an hundred years ago. 

Thomas Love Peacock. 

Sonnet. 

I know that all beneath the moon decay, 
And what by mortals in the world is 
bought, 

In Time’s great periods shall return to 
nought; 

That fairest states have fatal nights and 
days; 

I know how all the Muse’s heavenly lays, 
With toil of spright which are so dearly 
bought, 

As idle sounds, of few or none are sought, 
And that nought lighter is than airy praise, 
I know frail beauty’s like the purple flower, 
To which one morn oft birth and death 
affords; 

That love a jarring is of minds’ accords, 
Where sense and will invassal reason’s 
power: 

Know what I list, this all can not me 
move, 

But that, O me! I both must write and love. 
William Drummond of Hawthornden. 

a oo d- Morro w Song. 

Pack, clouds, away, and welcome, day, 
With night we banish sorrow; 

Sweet air, blow soft, mount, larks, aloft, 
To give my Love good-morrow ! 

Wings from the wind to please her mind. 
Notes from the lark I’ll borrow ; 

Bird, prune thy wing, nightingale, sing. 
To give my Love good-morrow ; 

To give my Love good-morrow 
Notes from them both I’ll borrow. 

Wake from thy nest, Robin redbreast. 
Sing, birds, in every furrow; 

And from each hill let music shrill 
Give my fair Love good-morrow ! 







216 


FIRESIDE ENCYCLOPAEDIA OF POETRY. 


Blackbird and thrush in every bush, 
Stare, linnet, and cock-sparrow! 

You pretty elves, amongst yourselves 
Sing my fair Love good-morrow; 

To give my Love good-morrow 
Sing, birds, in every furrow ! 

Thomas Heywood. 

The Song of the Camp. 

“ Give us a song !” the soldiers cried, 

The outer trenches guarding, 

When the heated guns of the camps allied 
Grew weary of bombarding. 

The dark Redan, in silent scoff, 

Lay grim and threatening under ; 

And the tawny mound of the Malakoff 
No longer belch’d its thunder. 

There was a pause. A guardsman said : 

“ We storm the forts to-morrow ; 

Sing while we may, another day 
Will bring enough of sorrow.” 

They lay along the battery’s side, 

Below the smoking cannon : 

Brave hearts from Severn and from Clyde, 
And from the banks of Shannon. 

They sang of love, and not of fame ; 
Forgot was Britain’s glory : 

Each heart recall’d a different name, 

But all sang “Annie Laurie.” 

Voice after voice caught up the song, 
Until its tender passion 

Rose like an anthem, rich and strong,— 
Their battle-eve confession. 

Dear girl, her name he dared not speak, 
But as the song grew louder, 

Something upon the soldier’s cheek 
Wash’d off the stains of powder. 

Beyond the darkening ocean burn’d 
The bloody sunset’s embers, 

While the Crimean valleys 1 earn’d 
Flow English love remembers. 

And once again a fire of hell 
Rain’d on the Russian quarters, 

With scream of shot, and burst of shell, 
And bellowin» of the mortars ! 


And Irish Nora’s eyes are dim 
For a singer dumb and gory ; 

And English Mary mourns for him 
Who sang of “Annie Laurie.” 

Sleep, soldiers! still in honor’d rest 
Your truth and valor wearing: 

The bravest are the tenderest,— 

The loving are the daring. 

Bayard Taylor . 


To Eva. 

0 fair and stately maid, whose eyes 
Were kindled in the upper skies 
At the same torch that lighted mine; 
For so I must interpret still 
Thy sweet dominion o’er my will, 

A sympathy divine. 

Ah, let me blameless gaze upon 
Features that seem at heart my own; 

Nor fear those watchful sentinels, 

Who charm the more their glance forbids, 
Chaste-glowing, underneath their lids, 
With lire that draws while it repels. 

Ralph Waldo Emerson. 


Who is Sylvia? 

Who is Sylvia ? what is she, 

That all the swains commend her? 
Holy, fair, and wise is she ; 

The heavens such grace did lend her 
That she might adored be. 

Is she kind, or is she fair ? 

For beauty lives with kindness. 

Love does to her eyes repair 
To help him of his blindness— 

And, being help’d, inhabits there. 

Then to Sylvia let us sing 
That Sylvia is excelling ; 

She excels each mortal thing 
Upon the dull earth dwelling; 

To her let us garlands bring. 

William Shakespeare. 











POEMS OF LOVE. 


217 


Auf Wiedersehen. 

Summer. 

The little gate was reach'd at last, 

Half hid in lilacs down the lane; 

She push'd it wide, and, as she past, 

A wistfull look she backward cast, 

And said,— “Auf wiedersehen !” 

With hand on latch, a vision white 
Lingered reluctant, and again, 

Half doubting if she did aright, 

Soft as the dews that fell that night, 

She said,— “Auf wiedersehen /” 

The lamp’s clear gleam flits up the stair ; 

I linger in delicious pain ; 

Ah, in that chamber, whose rich air 
To breathe in thought I scarcely dare, 
Thinks she,— “Auf wiedersehen /” 

’Tis thirteen years; once more I press 
The turf that silences the lane; 

I hear the rustle of her dress, 

I smell the lilacs, and—ah yes, 

I hear “Auf wiedersehen /” 

Sweet piece of bashful maiden art! 

The English words had seem’d too fain, 
But these—they drew us heart to heart, 
Vet held us tenderly apart; 

She said, “Auf wiedersehen /” 

James Russell Lowell. 


PALINODE. 

Autumn. 

Still thirteen years: ’tisautumn now 
On field and hill, in heart and brain; 
The naked trees at evening sough ; 

The leaf to the forsaken bough 
Sighs not,— “Auf wiedersehen /” 

Two watched yon oriole’s pendent dome, 
That now is void, and dank with rain, 
And one,—oh hope more frail than foam! 
The bird to his deserted home 
Sings not,— “Auf wiedersehen /” 

The loath gate swings with rusty creak ; 

< >n e. parting there, we played at pain ; 


j There came a parting, when tiie weak 
i And fading lips essayed to speak 
V ainly,— “Auf wiedersehen /” 

| Somewhere is comfort, somewhere faith. 
Though thou in outer dark remain; 

! One sweet sad voice ennobles death, 

And still, for eighteen centuries saith 
| Softly,—“ Auf wiedersehen /” 

If earth another grave must bear, 

Yet heaven hath won a sweeter strain, 
And something whispers my despair, 
That, from an orient chamber there, 
Floats down, “Auf wiedersehen!" 

James Russell Lowell. 


The Love-Knot. 

Tying her bonnet under her chin, 

She tied her raven ringlets in; 

But not alone in its silken snare 
Did she catch her lovely floating hair, 

! For, tying her bonnet under her chin, 

She tied a young man’s heart within. 

| They were strolling together up the hill, 

! Where the wind comes blowing merry and 
chill ; 

And it blew the curls a frolicsome race 
| All over the happy peach-color’d face, 

Till, scolding and laughing, she tied them 
in, 

Under her beautiful dimpled chin. 

And it blev>r a color, bright as the bloom 
j Of the pinkest fuschia’s tossing plume, 

All over the cheeks of the prettiest girl 
That ever imprison’d a romping curl, 

Or, in tying her bonnet under her chin, 
Tied a young man’s heart within. 

Steeper and steeper grew the hill— 
Madder, merrier, chillier still 
' The western wind blew down and play’d 
The wildest tricks with the little maid, 

As, tying her bonnet under her chin, 
i She tied a young man’s heart within. 

O western wind, do you think it was fair 
j To play such tricks with her floating hair ' } 










218 


FIRESIDE ENCYCLOPAEDIA OF POETRY. 


To gladly, gleefully do your best 
To blow her against the young man’s 
breast? 

Where he as gladly folded her in ; 

He kiss’d her mouth and dimpled chin. 

Oh, Ellery Vane, you little thought, 

An hour ago, when you besought 
This country lass to walk with you, 

After the sun had dried the dew, 

What perilous danger you’d be in, 

As she tied her bonnet under her chin. 

Nora Perry. 

When Stars are in the Quiet 
Skies. 

When stars are in the quiet skies, 

Then most I pine for thee; 

Bend on me then thy tender eyes, 

As stars look on the sea ! 

For thoughts, like waves that glide by 
night, 

Are stillest when they shine ; 

Mine earthly love lies hush’d in light 
Beneath the heaven of thine. 

There is an hour when angels keep 
Familiar watch o’er men, 

When coarser souls are wrapt in sleep— 
8weet spirit, meet me then ! 

There is an hour when holy dreams * 
Through slumber fairest glide; 

And in that mystic hour it seems 
Thou shouldst be by my side. 

My thoughts of thee too sacred are 
For daylight’s common beam : 

1 can but know thee as my star, 

My angel and my dream ; 

When stars are in the quiet skies, 

Then most I pine for thee; 

Bend on me then thy tender eyes, 

As stars look on the sea! 

Edward Bulwer Lytton. 

she’s Cane to Dwall in Hea ven. 

SmfA gane to dwall in heaven, my lassie, 
She gane to dwall in heaven ; 

Ye’re owre pure, quo’ the voice o’ God, 
For dwalling out o’ heaven. 


Oh, what’ll she do in heaven, my lassie, 
Oh, what’ll she do in heaven? 

She’ll mix her ain thoughts wi’ angels' 
sangs, 

An’ make them mair meet for heaven. 

She was beloved by a’, my lassie, 

She was beloved by a’, 

But an angel fell in love wi’ her, 

An’ took her frae us a’. 

Lowly there thou lies, my lassie, 

Lowly there thou lies; 

A bonnier form ne’er went to the yird, 

Nor frae it will arise. 

Fu’ soon I’ll follow thee, my lassie, 

Fu’ soon I’ll follow thee; 

Thou left me naught to covet ailin’, 

But took gudeness sel’ wi’ thee. 

I look’d on thy death-cold face, my lassie, 

I look’d on thy death-cold face ; 

Thou seem’d a lily new cut i’ the bud, 

An’ fading in its place. 

I look’d on thy death-shut eye, my lassie, 

I look'd on thy death-shut eye; 

An’ a lovelier light in the brow of heaven 
Fell Time shall ne’er destroy. 

Thy lips were ruddy and calm, my lassie, 
Thy lips were ruddy and calm ; 

But gane was the holy breath o’ heaven, 
That sing the evening psalm. 




There’s naught but dust now mine, lassie, 
There’s naught but dust now mine ; 

My soul’s wi’ thee i’ the cauld grave, 

An’ why should I stay bellin’ ? 

Allan Cunningham. 

Sonnet. 

Let me not to the marriage of true minds 
Admit impediments; love is not love 

Which alters when it alteration finds, 

Or bends with the remover to remove. 

Oh no! it is an ever-fixkd mark, 

That looks on tempests, and is never 
shaken; 

It is the star to every wandering bark, 
Whose worth’s unknown, although his 
height be taken. 









POEMS OF LOVE. 


219 


Love’s not Time’s fool, though rosy lips 
and cheeks 

Within his bending sickle’s compass 
come; 

Love alters not with his brief hours and 
weeks, 

But bears it out even to the edge of doom. 
If this be error, and upon me proved, 

1 never writ, nor no man ever loved. 

William Shakespeare. 

Sonnet. 

Tired with all these, for restful death I 
cry, 

As to behold desert a beggar born, 

And needy nothing trimm’d in jollity, 

And purest faith unhappily forsworn, 
And gilded honor shamefully misplaced, 
And maiden virtue rudely strumpeted, 
And right perfection wrongfully disgraced, j 
And strength by limping sway disabled, 
And art made tongue-tied by authority, 
And folly, doctor-like, controlling skill, 
And simple truth miscall’d simplicity, 

And captive Good attending Captain 

ill;— 

Tired with all these, from these would I 
be gone, 

Save that, to die, I leave my Love alone. 

William Shakespeare. 


Sonnet. 

No longer mourn for me when I am dead, 
Than you shall hear the surly, sullen 
bell 

Give warning to the world that I am fed 
From this vile world, with vilest worms 
to dwell. 

Nay, if you read this line, remember not 
The hand that writ it, for I love you so, 

That I in your sweet thoughts would be 
forgot, 

If thinking on me then should make 
you woe. 

Oh, if, I say, you look upon this verse 
When I perhaps compounded am with 
clay, 

Do not so much as my poor name rehearse, 
But let your love even with my life de¬ 
cay, 


Lest the wise world should look into your 
moan, 

And mock you with me after I am gone. 

William Shakespeare. 


Sonnet. 

That time of year thou may’st in me be 
hold, 

When yellow leaves, or none, or few do 
hang 

Upon those boughs which shake against 
the cold, 

Bare ruin’d choirs, where late the sweet 
birds sang. 

In me thou seest the twilight of such day 

As after sunset fadeth in the west, 

Which by and by black night doth take 
away, 

Death’s second self, that seals up all in 
rest; 

In me thou seest the glowing of such tire 

That on the ashes of his youth doth lie, 

As the deathbed whereon it must expire, 

Consumed with that which it was nour¬ 
ish’d by. 

This thou perceiv’st, which makes thy 
love more strong, 

To love that well which thou must leave 
ere long. 

William Shakespeare. 

Sonnet. 

When in disgrace with fortune and men’s 
eyes, 

I all alone bew r eep my outcast state, 

And trouble deaf Heaven with my boot¬ 
less cries, 

And look upon myself, and curse my 
fate, 

Wishing me like to one more rich in 
hope, 

Featured like him, like him with friends 
possess’d, 

Desiring this man’s art, and that man’s 
scope, 

With what I most enjoy contented least; 

Yet in these thoughts myself almost de¬ 
spising, 

Haply I think on thee, and then my 
state 






220 


FIRESIDE ENCYCLOPEDIA OF POETR 1 


(Like to the lark at break of day arising 
From sullen earth) sings hymns at heav¬ 
en’s gate: 

For thy sweet love remember’d such 
wealth brings, 

That then I scorn to change my state 
with kings. 

William Shakespeare. 
-*o«- 

Sonnet. 

When in the chronicle of wasted time 
L see descriptions of the fairest wights, 

And beauty making beautiful old rhyme 
In ]>raise of ladies dead, and lovely 
knights; 

Then in the blazon of sweet beauty’s best, 
Of hand, of foot, of lip, of eye, of brow, 

1 see their antique pen would have exprest 
Ev’n such a beauty as you master now. 

So all their praises are but prophecies 
Of this our time, all you prefiguring; 

And for they look’d but with divining eyes, 
They had not skill enough your worth 
to sing; 

For we, which now behold these present 
days, 

Have eves to wonder, but lack tongues to 
praise. 

William Shakespeare. 

■ . ♦<>« - 

Sonnet. 

Shall 1 compare thee to a summer’s day? 
Thou art more lovely and more temper¬ 
ate ; 

Rough winds do shake the darling buds of 
May, 

And summer’s lease hath all too short a 
date. 

Sometime too hot the eye of heaven shines, 
And often is his gold complexion dimm’d, 

And every fair from fair sometime de¬ 
clines, 

By chance, or Nature’s changing course, 
untrimm’d. 

But thy eternal summer shall not fade, 
Nor lose possession of that fair thou 
owest, 

Nor shall death brag thou wanderest in 
his shade, 

When in eternal lines to time thou 
growest. 


So long as men can breathe, or eyes can 
see, 

So long lives this, and this gives life to thee. 

William Shakespeare. 

Epi tha la mium. 

I saw two clouds at morning, 

Tinged by the rising sun, 

And in the dawn they floated on, 

And mingled into one ; 

I thought that morning cloud was bless’d, 
It moved so sweetly to the west. 

I saw two summer currents 

Flow smoothly to their meeting, 

And join their course, with silent force, 
in peace each other greeting ; 

Calm was their course through banks of 
green, 

While dimpling eddies play’d between. 

Such be your gentle motion, 
fill life’s last pulse shall beat; 

Like summer’s beam, and summer’s stream 
Float on, in joy, to meet 
A calmer sea, where storms shall cease— 

A purer sky, where all is peace. 

John G. C. Brainard. 

Bridal Song. 

To the sound of timbrels sweet 
Moving slow our solemn feet, 

We have borne thee on the road 
To the virgin’s blest abode ; 

With thy yellow torches gleaming, 
And thy scarlet mantle streaming, 
And the canopy above 
Swaying as we slowly move. 

Thou hast left the joyous feast, 

And the mirth and wine have ceased; 
And now we set thee down before 
The jealously-unclosing door, 

That the favor’d youth admits 
Where the veiled virgin sits 
In the bliss of maiden fear, 

Waiting our soft tread to hear, 

And the music’s brisker din 
At the bridegroom’s entering in— 
Entering in, a welcome guest, 

To the chamber of his rest. 

Henry Hart Milmak. 








OUR FAVORITE POETS 

The writings of these six men are always honored in American hearts. 





















fl/Z/rfffrtf 0/1 AtJ 3/7//A , ^ 

iSSSSBEr?' 


SIX WOMEN POETS 

Whose verses are familiar to American song lovers. 





















POEMS OF LOVE 


221 


To Anthea, who may Command 
Him anything. 

Bid me to live, and I will live 
Thy protestant to be: 

Or bid me love, and I will give 
A loving heart to thee. 

A heart as soft, a heart as kind, 

A heart as sound and free 

As in the whole world thou canst find, 
That heart I’ll give to thee. 

Bid that heart stay, and it will stay, 
To honor thy decree: 

Or bid it languish quite away, 

And’t shall do so for thee. 

Bid me to weep, and I will weep, 
While I have eyes to see : 

And having none, yet I will keep 
A heart to weep for thee. 

Bid me despair, and I’ll despair, 
Under that cypress tree: 

Or bid me die, and I will dare 
E’en death, to die for thee. 

Thou art my life, my love, my heart, 
The very eyes of me, 

And hast command of every part, 

To live and die for thee. 

Robert Herrick. 

The Chronicle .- A Ballad. 

Margarita first possess’d, 

If I remember well, my breast, 
Margarita first of all; 

But when a while the wanton maid 
With my restless heart had play’d, 
Martha took the flying ball. 

Martha soon did it resign 
To the beauteous Catharine: 

Beauteous Catharine gave place 
(Though loth and angry she to part 
With the possession of my heart) 

To Eliza’s conquering face. 

Eliza to this hour might reign, 

Had she not evil counsels ta’en : 

Fundamental laws she broke 
And still new favorites she chose, 

Till up in arms my passions rose, 

And cast away her yoke. 


Mary then, and gentle Anne, 

Both to reign at once began ; 

Alternately they sway’d, 

And sometimes Mary was the fair, 

And sometimes Anne the crown did wear, 
And sometimes both I obey’d. 

Another Mary then arose, 

And did rigorous laws impose; 

A mighty tyrant she! 

Long, alas! should I have been 
Under that iron-sceptred queen, 

Had not Rebecca set me free. 

When fair Rebecca set me free, 

’Twas then a golden time with me : 

But soon those pleasures tied; 

For the gracious princess died 
In her youth and beauty’s pride, 

And Judith reigned in her stead. 

One month, three days and half an hour 
Judith held the sovereign power: 

Wondrous beautiful her face, 

But so weak and small her wit, 

That she to govern was unfit, 

And so Susanna took her place. 

But when Isabella came, 

Arm’d with a resistless flame; 

And th’ artillery of her eye, 

Whilst she proudly march’d about, 
Greater conquests to find out, 

She beat out Susan by-the-by. 

But in her place I then obey’d 
Black-eyed Bess, her viceroy maid, 

To whom ensued a vacancy. 

Thousand worst passions then possess’d 
The interregnum of my breast. 

Bless me from such an anarchy! 

Gentle Henrietta then, 

And a third Mary, next began: 

Then Joan, and Jane, and Audria ; 
And then a pretty Thomasine, 

And then another Catharine, 

And then a long et cetera. 

But should I now to you relate 
The strength and riches of their state, 
The powder, patches, and the pins, 
The ribands, jewels, and the rings, 

The lace, the paint, and warlike things, 
'That make up all their magazines : 






FIRESIDE ENCYCLOPAEDIA OF POETRY. 


If I should tell the politic arts 
To take and keep men’s hearts, 

The letters, embassies, and spies, 
The frowns, the smiles and flatteries, 
The quarrels, tears, and perjuries, 
Numberless, nameless mysteries! 

And all the little lime-twigs laid 
By Mach’avel the waiting-maid ; 

I more voluminous should grow 
(Chiefly if I like them should tell 
All change of weathers that befell) 
Than Holinshed or Stow. 

But I will briefer with them be, 

Since few of them were long with me. 

A higher and a nobler 
My present emperess does claim, 
Heleonora! first o’ the name, 

Whom God grant long to reign. 

Abraham Cowley. 

On the Doorstep. 

The conference-meeting through at last, 
We boys around the vestry waited 
To see the girls come tripping past 
Like snowbirds willing to be mated. 

Not braver he that leaps the wall 
By level musket-flashes litten, 

Than I, who stepped before them all, 
Who longed to see me get the mitten. 

But no; she blushed, and took my arm ! 

We let the old folks have the highway, 
And started toward the Maple Farm 
Along a kind of lover’s by-way. 

I can’t remember what we said, 

’Twas nothing worth a song or story ; 
Yet that rude path by which we sped 
Seemed all transformed and in a glory. 


The snow was crisp beneath our feet, 

The moon was full, the fields were gleam¬ 
ing; 

By hood and tippet sheltered sweet, 

Her face with youth and health was 
beaming. 

The little hand outside her muff— 

O sculptor, if you could but mold it!— 

So lightly touched my jacket-cuff, 

To keep it warm I had to hold it. 

To have her with me there alone,— 

’Twas love and fear and triumph blended. 

At last we reached the foot-worn stone 
Where that delicious journey ended. 

The old folks, too, were almost home; 

Her dimpled hand the latches fingered, 

We heard the voices nearer come, 

Yet on the doorstep still we lingered. 

She shook her ringlets from her hood, 

And with a “Thank you, Ned,” dis¬ 
sembled, 

But yet I knew she understood 

With what a daring wish I trembled. 

A cloud passed kindly overhead, 

The moon was slyly peeping through it, 

Yet hid its face, as if it said, 

“ Come, now or never! do it! do it /” 

My lips till then had only known 
The kiss of mother and of sister, 

But somehow, full upon her own 
Sweet, rosy, darling mouth—I kissed her. 

Perhaps ’twas boyish love, yet still, 

O listless woman, weary lover! 

To feel once more that fresh, wild thrill 
I’d give— But who can live.youth over? 

Edmitnp Clarence Stedman. 








Personal Poems. 


0 Captain / my Captain / 

A DIRGE FOR LINCOLN. 

O 1 aptain ! my Captain ! our fearful trip 
is done, 

T*»b ship has weather’d every rack, the 
prize we sought is won, 

fhe port is near, the bells I hear, the peo¬ 
ple all exulting, 

While follow eyes the steady keel, the 
vessel grim and daring ; 

But, O heart! heart! heart! 

O the bleeding drops of red, 

Where on the deck my Captain lies, 
Fallen cold and dead. 

0 Captain ! my Captain ! rise up and hear 
the bells; 

Rise up—for you the flag is flung—for you 
the bugle trills, 

For you bouquets and ribbon’d wreaths— 
for you the shores a-crowding, 

For you they call, the swaying mass, their 
eager faces turning; 

Here Captain ! dear father ! 

This arm beneath your head ! 

It is some dream that on the deck, 
You’ve fallen cold and dead. 

My Captain does not answer, his lips are 
pale and still, 

My father does not feel my arm, he has no 
pulse nor will, 

The ship is anchor’d safe and sound, its 
voyage closed and done, 

From fearful trip the victor ship comes in 
with object won ; 

Exult, O shores, and ring, O bells! 

But I with mournful tread, 

Walk the deck my Captain lies, 
Fallen cold and dead. 

Walt Whitman. 


On a bust of Dante. 

See, from this counterfeit of him 
Whom Arno shall remember long, 

How stern of lineament, how grim, 

The father was of Tuscan song! 

There but the burning sense of wrong, 
Perpetual care, and scorn, abide— 

Small friendship for the lordly throng, 
Distrust of all the world beside. 

Faithful if this wan image be, 

No dream his life was—but a fight; 
Could any Beatrice see 
A lover in that anchorite ? 

To that cold Ghibeline’s gloomy sight 
Who could have guessed the visions came 
Of beauty, veiled with heavenly light, 

In circles of eternal flame? 

The lips as Cumae’s cavern close, 

The cheeks with fast and sorrow thin, 
The rigid front, almost morose, 

But for the patient hope within, 

Declare a life whose course hath been 
Unsullied still, though still severe, 
Which, through the wavering days of sin, 
Kept itself icy-chaste and clear. 

Not wholly such his haggard look 

When wandering once, forlorn, he st rayed, 
With no companion save his book, 

To Corvo’s hushed monastic shade; 
Where, as the Benedictine laid 
His palm upon the pilgrim guest, 

The single boon for which he prayed 
The convent’s charity was rest. 

Peace dwells not here—this rugged face 
Betrays no spirit of repose; 

The sullen warrior sole we trace, 

The marble man of many woes. 

22 3 





224 


FI RESIDE ENCYCLOPAEDIA OF POETRY 


Such was his mien when first arose 

The thought of that strange tale divine— 
When hell he peopled with his foes, 

The scourge of many a guilty line. 

War to the last he waged with all 
The tyrant canker-worms of earth; 
Baron and duke, in hold and hall, 

Cursed the dark hour that gave him birth. 
He used Rome’s harlot for his mirth ; 

Plucked bare hypocrisy and crime; 

But valiant souls of knightly worth 
Transmitted to the rolls of Time. 

O Time! whose verdicts mock our own, 
The only righteous judge art thou ; 

That poor, old exile, sad and lone, 

Is Latium’s other Virgil now. 

Before his name the nations bow ; 

His words are parcel of mankind, 

Deep in whose hearts, as on his brow, 

The marks have sunk of Dante’s mind. 

Thomas William Parsons. 

Prisoned in Windsor, He Re¬ 
counteth his Pleasure there 
Passed. 

So cruel prison how could betide, alas! 

As proud Windsor? where I in lust and 

joy. 

With a King’s son, my childish years did 
pass, 

In greater feast than Priam’s sons of 
Troy. 

Where each sweet place returns a taste full 
sour. 

The large green courts, where we were 
wont to hove, 

With eyes cast up into the Maiden’s Tower, 
And easy sighs, such as folk draw in 
love. 

The stately seats, the ladies bright of hue, 
The dances short, long tales of great de¬ 
light ; 

• With words, and looks, that tigers could 
but rue, 

Where each of us did plead the other’s 
right. 

The palme-play, where despoiled for the 
game, 

With daz£d eyes oft we by gleams of love 


; Have miss’d the ball, and got sight of oui 
dame, 

To bait her eyes, which kept the leads 
above. 

The gravel’d ground, with sleeves tied on 
the helm, 

On foaming horse, with swords and 
friendly hearts; 

I With chere, as though one should another 
whelm, 

Where we have fought, and chased oft 
with darts. 

With silver drops the mead yet spread for 
ruth, 

In active games of nimbleness and 
strength, 

Where we did strain, trained with swarms 
of youth, 

Our tender limbs, that vet shot up in 
length. 

The secret groves, which oft we made re¬ 
sound 

Of pleasant plaint, and of our ladies’ 
praise; 

Recording oft what grace each one had 
found, 

What hope of speed, what dread of long 
delays: 

The wild forest, the clothed holts with green; 

With reins avail’d, and swift-vbreathed 
horse, 

With cry of hounds and merry blasts be¬ 
tween, 

Where we did chase the fearful hart of 
force. 

The void vales, eke, that harbor’d us each 
night; 

Wherewith, alas! reviveth in my breast 

The sweet accord,such sleeps as yet delight; 

The pleasant dreams, the quiet bed of 
rest; 

The secret thoughts, imparted with such 
trust; 

The wanton talk, the divers change oi 
play; 

The friendship sworn, each promise kept 
so just, 

Wherewith we past the winter night 
away. 

And with this thought the blood forsakes 
the face, 

The tears berain my cheeks of deadly hue: 






PERSONA L POEMS. 


225 


The which, as soon as sobbing sighs, 
alas, 

Upsuppfed have, thus 1 my plaint renew : 
O place of bliss! renewer of my woes ! 
Give me account, where is my noble 
fere? 

Whom in thy walls thou dost each night 
enclose; 

To other lief; but unto me most dear: 
Echo, alas! that doth tny sorrow rue, 
Returns thereto a hollow sound of plaint. 
Thus I alone, where all my freedom grew, 
In prison pine with bondage and restraint. 
And with remembrance of the greater grief, 
To banish the less, I find my chief relief. 

Henry Howard, Ear] of Surrey. 

The Good Lord Clifford. 

SONG AT THE FEAST OF BROUGHAM CASTLE 

upon the Restoration of Lord Ci.if- 
ford, the Shepherd, to the Estates 
and Honors of his Ancestors. 

High in the breathless hall the minstrel sate, 
And Emont’s murmur mingled with the 
song. 

The words of ancient time I thus translate, 
A festal strain that hath been silent long. 
“ From town to town, from tower to tower, 
The red rose is a gladsome flower. 

Her thirty years of winter past, 

The red rose is revived at last; 

She lifts her head for endless spring, 

For everlasting blossoming: 

Both roses flourish, red and white. 

In love and sisterly delight 

The two that were at strife are blended, 

And all old troubles now are ended. 

Joy! joy to both ! but most to her 
Who is the flower of Lancaster! 

Behold her how she smiles to-day 
On this great throng, this bright array! 
Fair greeting doth she send to all 
From every corner of the Hall; 

But, chiefly, from above the board 
Where sits in state our rightful lord, 

A Clifford to his own restored! 

“They came with banner, spear, and shield: 
And it was proved in Bosworth field. 

Not long the avenger was withstood— 
Earth help’d him with the cry of blood 
15 


| St. George was with us, and the might 
Of blessed angels crown’d the right. 

! Loud voice the land has utter’d forth, 
j We loudest in the faithful north: 

Our fields rejoice, our mountains ring, 

Our streams proclaim a welcoming; 

Our strong abodes and castles see 
The glory of their loyalty. 

“ How glad is Skipton at this hour— 
Though she is but a lonely tower! 

To vacancy and silence left; 

Of all her guardian sons bereft— 

Knight, squire, or yeoman, page or groom 
We have them at the feast of Brougham. 
How glad Pen dragon—though the sleep 
Of years be on her !—She shall reap 
A taste of this great pleasure, viewing 
As in a dream her own renewing. 

Rejoiced is Brough, right glad, I deem, 
Beside her little humble stream; 

And she that keepeth watch and ward 
Her statelier Eden’s course to guard ; 
They both arc happy at this hour, 

Though each is but a lonely tower:—- 
But here is perfect joy and pride 
For one fair House by Emont’s side, 

This day, distinguish’d without peer, 

To see her Master, and to cheer 
Him and and his Lady Mother dear! 

“ Oh ! it was a time forlorn, 

When the fatherless was born— 

Give her wings that she may fly, 

Or she sees her infant die ! 

Swords that are with slaughter wild 
Hunt the mother and the child. 

Who will take them from the light? 

| —Yonder is a man in sight— 

Yonder is a house—but where? 

No, they must not enter there. 

To the caves, and to the brooks, 

To the clouds of heaven she looks * 

She is speechless, but her eyes 
Pray in ghostly agonies. 

Blissful Mary, mother mild, 

Maid and mother undefiled, 

Save a mother and her child! 

“ Now who is he that bounds with jov 
On Carrock’s side—a Shepherd Boy? 

No thoughts hath he but thoughts that pass 
Light as the wind along the grass. 











226 


FI RESIDE ENCYCLOPEDIA OF POETRY. 


Can this be he who hither came 
In secret, like a smother’d flame? 

O’er whom such thankful tears were shed 
For shelter, and a poor man’s bread ! 

God loves the child, and God hath will'd 
That those dear words should be fulfill’d. 
The lady’s words, when forced away, 

The last she to her babe did say, 

‘ My own, my own, thy fellow-guest 
I may not be; but rest thee, rest, 

For lowly shepherd’s life is best !’ 

“ Alas! when evil men are strong 
No life is good, no pleasure long. 

The boy must part from Mosedale’s groves 
And leave Blencathara’s rugged coves, 
And quit the flowers that summer brings 
To Glenderamakin’s lofty springs ; 

Must vanish, and his careless cheer 
Be turn’d to heaviness and fear. 

—Give Sir Lancelot Threlkeld praise ! 
Hear it, good man, old in days! 

Thou free of covert and of rest 
For this young bird that is distrest; 
Among the branches safe he lay, 

And he was free to sport and play 
When falcons were abroad for prey. 

“ A recreant harp, that sings of fear 
And heaviness in Clifford’s ear ! 

I said, when evil men are strong, 

No life is good, no pleasure long,— 

A weak and cowardly untruth ! 

Our Clifford was a happy youth, 

And thankful through a weary time 
That brought him up to manhood’s prime. 
—Again he wanders forth at will 
And tends a flock from hill to hill: 

His garb is humble : ne’er was seen 
Such garb with such a noble mien : 

Among the Shepherd-grooms no mate 
Hath he, a child of strength and state! 
Yet lacks not friends for solemn glee, 

And a cheerful company, 

That learn’d of him submissive ways, 

And comforted his private days. 

To his side the fallow-deer 
Came, and rested without fear; 

The eagle, lord of land and sea, 

Stoop’d down to pay him fealty ; 

And both the undying fish that swim 
Through Bowscale Tarn did wait on him, 


The pair were servants of his eye 
In their immortality; 

They moved about in open sight, 

To and fro, for his delight. 

He knew the rocks which angels haunt 
On the mountains visitant; 

He hath kenn’d them taking wing: 

And the caves where faeries sing 
He hath enter’d ;—and been told 
[ By voices how men lived of old. 

Among the heavens his eye can see 
Face of thing that is to be ; 

And, if men report him right, 

He could whisper words of might, 

—Now another day is come, 

Fitter hope, and nobler doom : 

He hath thrown aside his crook, 

And hath buried deep his book ; 

Armor rusting in his halls 
On the blood of Clifford calls;- 
‘ Quell the Scot,’ exclaims the lance— 
Bear me to the heart of France, 

Is the longing of the shield— 

Tell thy name, thou trembling field; 

Field of death, where’er thou be, 

Groan thou with our victory ! 

Happy day, and mighty hour, 

! When our Shepherd, in his power, 
j Mail’d and horsed, with lance and sword 
To his ancestors restored, 

Like a re-appearing star, 

Like a glory from afar, 

First shall head the flock of war !” 

j Alas! the fervent harper did not know 
That for a tranquil soul the lay was 
framed, 

Who, long compell’d in humble walks to go, 
Was soften’d into feeling, soothed, and 
tamed. 

Love had he found in huts where poor 
men lie; 

His daily teachers had been woods and 
rills, 

The silence that is in the starry skv, 

The sleep that is among the lonely hills. 

In him the savage virtue of the race, 
Revenge, and all ferocious thoughts were 
dead: 

Nor did he change; but kept in lofty 
place 

The wisdom which adversity had bred. 









VERSON A1. POEMS. 


227 


Glad were the vales, and every cottage 
hearth; 

The Shepherd Lord was honor’d more 
and more: 

And ages after he was laid in earth, 

“ The good Lord Clifford ” was the name 
he bore. 

William Wordsworth. 

Inscription for a Statue of 
Chaucer at Woodstock. 

Such was old Chaucer: such the placid 
mien 

Of him who first with harmony inform’d 

The language of our fathers. Here he dwelt 

For many a cheerful day. These ancient 
walls 

Have often heard him, while his legends 
blithe 

He sang; of love, or knighthood, or the 
wiles 

Of homely life; through each estate and 
age, 

The fashions and the follies of the world 

With cunning hand portraying. Though 
perchance 

From Blenheim’s towers, O stranger, thou \ 
art come 

Glowing with Churchill’s trophies; yet in 
vain 

Dost thou applaud them, if thv breast be 
cold 

To him, this other hero; who in times 

Dark and untaught, began with charming 
verse 

To tame the rudeness of his native land. 

Mark Akenside. 

To Mistress Margaret Hussey. 

Merry Margaret, 

As midsummer flower, 

Gentle as falcon, 

Or hawk of the tower; 

With solace and gladness, 

Much mirth and no madness, 

.All good and no badness; 

So joyously, 

So maidenly, 

So womanly 
Her demeaning, 

In everything 
Far, far passing 


That I can indite, 

Or suffice to write, 

Of merry Margaret, 

As midsummer flower, 

Gentle as falcon 
Or hawk of the tower; 

As patient and as still, 

And as full of good-will, 

As fair Isipliil, 

Coliander, 

Sweet Pomander, 

Good Cassander; 

Steadfast of thought, 

Well made, well wrought; 

Far may be sought 
Ere you can find 
So courteous, so kind, 

As merry Margaret, 

This midsummer flower, 

Gentle as falcon, 

Or hawk of the tower. 

John Skelton. 

Epigram on Sir Francis I)ram. 

The stars above will make thee known. 

If man were silent here : 

The sun himself cannot forget 
His fellow-traveller. 

Ben Jonson 

An Ode—to Himself. 

Where dost thou careless lie 
Buried in ease and sloth ? 

Knowledge that sleeps, doth die: 

And this security, 

It is the common moth, 

That eats on wits and arts, and so destroys 
them both. 

Are all the Aonian springs 
Dried up? lies Thespia waste? 

Doth Clarius’ harp want strings, 

That not a nymph now sings ? 

Or droop they as disgraced 

To see their seats and bowers by chatter¬ 
ing pies defaced ? 

If hence thy silence be, 

As ’tis too just a cause— 

Let this thought quicken thee; 

Minds that are great and free 
Should not on fortune pause ? 

’Tis crown enough to virtue still, her own 
applause. 







2-2X 


FIRESIDE ENCYCLOPAEDIA OF POETRY. 


What though the greedy fry 
Be taken with false baits 
Of worded balladry, 

And think it poesy ? 

They die with their conceits, 

And only piteous scorn upon their folly 
waits. 

Then take in hand thy lyre, 

Strike in thy proper strain ; 

With Japhet’s line aspire 
Sol’s chariot for new fire 
To give the world again ; 

Who aided him, will thee, the issue of 
Jove’s brain. 

And since our dainty age 
Cannot indure reproof, 

Make not thyself a page 
To that strumpet, the stage ; 

But sing high and aloof 
Safe from the wolf’s black jaw, and the 
dull ass’s hoof. 

Ben .Tonsox. 


Sonnet. 

Ox itis Bring Arrived to the Age of 
Twenty-three. 

How soon hath Time, the subtle thief of 
youth, 

Stolen on his wing my three-and-twenti- 
eth year! 

My hasting days fly on with full career, 

But my late spring no bud or blossom 
show’th. 

Perhaps my semblance might deceive the 
truth, 

That 1 to manhood am arrived so near; 

And inward ripeness doth much less ap¬ 
pear 

That some more timely-happy spirits en- j 
du’th. 

Yet be it less or more, or soon or slow, 

It shall be still in strictest measure even 

To that same lot, however mean or high, 

Toward which Time leads me, and the will 
of heaven : 

All is, if T have grace to use it so, 

As ever in my great Task-master’s eye. 

John Milton. 


Epitaph on a Living Author. 

Herr, passenger, beneath this shed, 

Lies Cowley, tho’ entomb’d, not dead ; 
Yet freed from human toil and strife, 
And all th’ impertinence of life. 

Who in his poverty is neat, 

And even in retirement great. 

With Gold, the people’s idol, he 
Holds endless war and enmity. 

Can you not say, he has resigned 
His breath, to this small cell confined? 
With this small mansion let him have 
The rest and silence of the grave: 

Strew roses here as on his hearse, 

And reckon this his funeral verse: 

With wreaths of fragrant herbs adorn 
Tho vet surviving poet’s urn. 

Abraham Cowley. 

-»o«- — 

On My Dear Son, Gervase rf.au- 
mont. 

Can T, who have for others oft compiled 
The songs of death, forget my sweetest 
child, 

Which like a flower crushed with a blast is 
dead, 

And ere full time hangs down Ids smiling 
head, 

Expecting with clear hope to live anew, 
Among the angels fed with heavenly dew ? 
We have this sign of joy, that many days, 
While on the earth his struggling spirit 
stays, 

The name of Jesus in his mouth contains 
His only food, his sleep, his ease from 
pains. 

Oh, may that sound be rooted in mv mind, 
Of which in him such strong effect I find ! 
Dear Lord, receive my son, whose winning 
love 

To me was like a friendship, far above 
The course of nature or his tender age ; 
Whose looks could all my bitter griefs as¬ 
suage : 

Let his pure soul—ordain’d seven years to 
be 

In that frail body, which was part of me- 










PERSONAL POEMS. 


229 


Remain my pledge in heaven, as sent to 
show 

How to this port at every step I go. 

Sib John Beaumont. 

An Epitaph upon the Right 
Honourable Sir Phillip Sidney. 

To praise thy life, or waile thy worthie 
death, 

And want thy wit, thy wit high, pure, 
divine, 

Is far beyond the powre of mortall line, 

Nor any one hath worth that draweth 
breath. 

Yet rich in zeale, though poore in learn¬ 
ings lore, 

And friendly care obscurde in secret brest, 

And love that envie in thy life supprest, 

Thy deere life done, and death hath 
doubled more. 

And I, that in thy time and living state, 

Did onelv praise thy vertues in my 
thought, 

As one that feeld the rising sun hath 
sought, 

With words and teares now waile thy 
timelesse fate. 

Drawue was thy race aright from princely 
line, 

Nor lesse than such (by gifts that nature 
gave, 

The common mother that all creatures 
have) 

Doth vertue shew, and princely linage shine. 

A king gave thee thy name: a kingly minde 

That God thee gave ; who found it now 
too deere 

For this base world, and hath resumde 
it neere, 

To sit in skies, and sortjvith powres divine. 

Kent thy birth daies, and Oxford held thy 
youth ; 

The heavens made hast, and staid nor 
yeers, nor time: 

The fruits of age grew ripe in thv first 
prime; 

Thv will, thy words ; thy words the seales 
of truth. 


Great gifts and wisedom rare implovd thee 
thence, 

To treat from kings with those more 
great than kings; 

Such hope men had to lay the highest 
things 

On thy wise youth, to be transported hence. 

Whence to sharpe wars sweet honor did 
thee call, 

Thy countries love, religion, and thy 
friends: 

Of worthy men the marks, the lives, and 
ends, 

And her defence, for whom we labor all. 

There didst thou vanquish shame and 
tedious age, 

Griefe, sorrow, sicknes, and base fortunes 
might: 

Thy rising day saw never wofull night, 

But past with praise from oft’ this worldly 
stage. 

Back to the campe, by thee that day was 
brought, 

First thine owne death, and after tlxy 
long fame; 

Teares to the soldiers, the proud Castil¬ 
ians shame, 

Vertue exprest, and honor truly taught. 

What hath he lost that such great grace 
hath won'? 

Yoong veeres for endless yeeres, and 
hope unsure 

i Of fortunes gifts for wealth that still 
shall dure: 

Oh, happie race with so great praises run! 

England doth hold thy lims that bred the 
same, 

Flaunders thy valure where it last was 
tried, 

The campe thy sorrow where thy bodie 
died, 

Thy friends thy want; the world thy ver¬ 
tues fame: 

Nations thy wit, our mindes lay up thy 
love; 

Letters thy learning, thy losse yeeres 
long to come: 








230 


FIRESIDE ENCYCLOPAEDIA OF POETRY. 


in worthy harts sorrow hath made thy 
tombe; 

Thy soule and spright enrich the heavens 
above. 

Thy liberall hart imbalmd in gratefull 
teares, 

Yoong sighes, sweet sighes, sage sighes, 
bewaile thy fall; 

Envie her sting, and Spite hath left her 
gall, 

Malice her selfe a mourning garment 
weares. 

That day their Hanniball died, our Scipio 
fell! 

Scipio, Cicero, and Petrarch of our time! 

Whose vertues, wounded by my worth- 
lesse rime, 

Let Angels speake, and heaven thy praises 
tell. 

Sir Walter Raleigh. 

Tears Wept at the Grave of 
Sir Albert us Morton. 

Silence, in truth, would speak my sorrow 
best, 

For deepest wounds can least their feel¬ 
ings tell; 

Yet let me borrow from mine own unrest 

But time to bid him, whom I loved, fare¬ 
well. 

O my unhappy lines! you that before 

Have served my youth to vent some 
wanton cries, 

And now, congeal’d with grief, can scarce 
implore 

Strength to accent, “ Here my Albertus 
lies!” 

This is the sable stone, this is the cave 

And womb of earth, that doth his corpse 
embrace: 

While others sing his praise, let me en¬ 
grave 

These bleeding numbers to adorn the 
place. 

Here will I paint the characters of woe; 

Here will I pay my tribute to the dead; 

And here my faithful tears in showers shall 
flow, 

To humanize the Hints whereon I tread. 


Where, though I mourn my matchless loss 
alone, 

And none between my weakness judge 
and me, 

Yet even these gentle walls allow my moan, 

Whose doleful echoes to my plaints agree 

But is he gone? and live 1 rhyming here, 

As if some Muse would listen to my lay, 

When all, distuned, sit wailing for their 
dear, 

And bathe the banks where he was wont 
to play? 

Dwell thou in endless light, discharged 
soul, 

Freed now from Nature’s and from For¬ 
tune’s trust, 

While on this fluent globe my glass shall 
roll, 

And run the rest of my remaining dust. 

Sir Henry Wotton. 

Upon the Death of Sir alber¬ 
tus Mortons Wife. 

He first deceased; she for a little tried 

To live without him, liked it not, and died. 

Sir Henry Wotton. 


To the Memory of my Be¬ 
loved, the Author, Mr. Wil¬ 
liam Shakespeare, and what 
he hath left us. 

To draw no envy (Shakespeare) on thy 
name, 

Am I thus ample to thy book, and fame; 

While I confess thy writings to be such, 

As neither man, nor muse, can praise too 
much; 

’Tis true, and all men’s suffrage; but these 
ways 

Were not the path T meant unto thy praise 

For seeliest ignorance on these may light. 

Which, when it sounds at best, but echoes 
right, 

Or blind affection, which doth ne’er advance 

The truth, but gropes, and urgeth all by 
chance; 

Or crafty malice might pretend this praise, 

And think to ruin, where it seem’d to 


raise: 







PERSONAL POEMS. 


■2:\ 


These are, as some infamous bawd, or 
whore, 

Should praise a matron : what could hurt 
her more? 

But thou art proof against them; and, in¬ 
deed, 

Above th’ ill fortune of them, or the need. 

therefore will begin :—Soul of the age, 
ft p, applause, delight, the wonder of our 
stage, 

Shakespeare, rise! T will not lodge 
thee by 

th ucer, or Spenser; or bid Beaumont lie 
A little further, to make thee a room; 
fhou art a monument without a tomb ; 
And art alive still, while thy book doth live. 
And we have wits to read, and praise to 
give. 

That I not mix thee so, my brain excuses; 
I mean, with great but disproportion’d 
muses: 

^or, if I thought my judgment were of 
years, 

I should commit thee surely with thy 
peers; 

And tell how far thou didst our Lyly out¬ 
shine, 

Jr sporting Kyd, or Marlowe’s mighty line: 
And though thou hadst small Latin, and 
less Greek, 

From thence to honor thee, I would not 
seek 

For names; but call forth thundering 
JEschylus, 

Euripides, and Sophocles, to us, 

Pacuvius, Accius, him of Cordova dead, 
To live again, to hear thy buskin tread 
! And shake a stage; or, when thy socks were 
\ on, 

Leave thee alone, for the comparison 
Of all that insolent Greece, or haughty 
Rome, 

Sent forth, or since did from their ashes 
come. 

Triumph, my Britain! thou hast one to 
show, 

To whom all scenes of Europe homage owe. 
He was not of an age, but for all time; 
And all the muses still were in their 
prime, 

When like Apollo he came forth to warm 
Our ears, or like a Mercury to charm. 


Nature herself was proud of his designs. 
And joy’d to wear the dressing of his lines: 
Which were so richly spun, and woven so 
fit, 

As since she will vouchsafe no other wit. 
The merry Greek, tart Aristophanes, 

Neat Terence, witty Plautus, now not 
please; 

But antiquated and deserted lie, 

As they were not of Nature’s family. 

Vet must I not give Nature all; thy art, 
M\ gentle Shakespeare, must enjoy a part: 
For though the poet’s matter nature be, 
His art doth give the fashion; and that 
he, 

Who casts to write a living line, must 
sweat 

(Such as thine are), and strike the second 
heat 

L T pon the muses’ anvil; turn the same 
(And himself with it) that he thinks to 
frame; 

Or for the laurel he may gain a scorn, 

For a good poet’s made as well as born: 
And such wert thou. Look, how the fa¬ 
ther’s face 

Lives in his issue; even so the race 
Of Shakespeare’s mind, and manners, 
brightly shines 

In his well-turned and true-filed lines; 

In each of which he seems to shake a 
lance, 

As brandish’d at the eyes of ignorance. 
Sweet Swan of Avon, what a sight it 
were, 

To see thee in our water yet appear; 

And make those flights upon the banks of 
Thames, 

That so did take Eliza, and our James. 

But stay; I see thee in the hemisphere 
Advanced, and made a constellation 
there: 

Shine forth, thou star of poets; and with 
rage, 

Or influence, chide, or cheer, the drooping 
stage; 

Which, since thy flight from hence, hath 
mourn’d like night, 

And despairs day, but for thy volume's 
light. 

Ben Jonso.v. 









232 


FIRESIDE ENCYCLOPAEDIA OF POETRY. 


An Epitaph on the Admirable 
Dramatic Poet, W. Shakespeare. 

What need my Shakespeare for his 
honour’d bones, 

The labour of an age in pilfed stones; 

Or that his hallow’d reliques should'be hid 

Under a star-ypointed pyramid? 

Dear son of memory, great heir of fame, 

What need’st thou such dull witness of thy 
name ? 

Thou, in our wonder and astonishment, 

Hast built thyself a lasting monument: 

For whilst, to the shame of slow-endeav¬ 
ouring art, 

Thy easy numbers flow; and that each 
part 

Hath, from the leaves of thy unvalued 
book, 

Those Delphic lines with deep impression 
took; 

Then thou, our fancy of herself bereaving, 

Dost make us marble with too much con¬ 
ceiving ; 

And, so sepulchred, in such pomp dost lie, 

That kings for such a tomb would wish to 
die. 

John Milton. 


Lines on the Portrait of 
Shakespeare. 

This figure, that thou here seest put, 

It was for gentle Shakespeare cut; 
Wherein the Graver had a strife 
With Nature to outdo the life: 

Oh, could he but have drawn his wit 
As well in brass, as lie hath hit 
His face; the Print would then surpass 
All that was ever writ in brass. 

But since he cannot, Reader, look 
Not at his picture, but his book. 

Ben Jonson. 


Lines. 

Written the Night before his Exe¬ 
cution. 

E’en such is time; which takes on trust 
Our youth, our joys, our all we have, 
And pays us but with earth and dust; 
Which in the dark and silent grave, 


When we have wander’d all our ways, 
Shuts up the story of our days: 

; But from this earth, this grave, this dust, 
My God shall raise me up, I trust. 

Sir Walter Raleigh. 


Upon the Sudden Restraint ob 
the Earl of Somerset, then 
Falling from Favor. 

Dazzled thus with height of place, 
Whilst our hopes our wits beguile, 

No man marks the narrow space 
’Twixt a prison and a smile. 

Then, since Fortune’s favors fade, 

You that in her arms do sleep 
Learn to swim, and not to wade, 

For the hearts of kings are deep. 

But if greatness be so blind 
As to trust in towers of air, 

Let it be with goodness lined, 

That at least the fall be fair. 

Then, though darken’d, you shall say. 
When friends fail and princes frown, 
Virtue is the roughest way 

But proves at night a bed of down. 

Sir Henry Wotton. 


To the Lady Margaret, Countess 
of Cumberland. 

He that of such a height hath built his 
mind, 

And rear’d the dwelling of his thoughts so 
strong, 

As neither fear nor hope can shake the 
frame 

Of his resolved powers ; nor all the wind 

Of vanity or malice pierce to wrong 

His settled peace, or to disturb the same: 

What a fair seat hath he, from whence he 
may 

The boundless wastes and wilds of man 
survey! 

And with how free an eye doth he look 
down 

Upon these lower regions of turmoil! 








PERSONAL POEMS. 


283 


Where all the storms of passions mainly 
beat 

On flesh and blood: where honor, power, 
renown 

Are only gay afflictions, golden toil; 

Where greatness stands upon as feeble 
feet 

As frailty doth; and only great doth 
seem 

To little minds, who do it so esteem. 

He looks upon the mightiest monarch’s 
wars 

But only as on stately robberies; 

Where evermore the fortune that prevails 
Must be the right; the ill-succeeding 
Mars 

The fairest and the best-faced enterprise. 
Great pirate Pompev lesser pirates quails; 
Justice, he sees, (as if seducfed) still 
Conspires with power, whose cause must 
not be ill. 

He sees the face of right t’ appear as 
manifold 

As are the passions of uncertain man; 
Who puts it in all colors, all attires, 

To serve his ends, and make his courses 
hold. 

He sees, that let deceit work what it 
can, 

Plot and contrive base ways to high de¬ 
sires ; 

That the all - guiding Providence doth 
yet 

All disappoint, and mocks the smoke of 
wit. 

Nor is he moved with all the thunder- 
cracks 

Of tyrants’ threats, or with the surly brow 
Of Power, that proudly sits on others’ 
crimes; 

Charged with more crying sins than those 
he checks. 

The storms of sad confusion, that may 
grow 

Up in the present for the coming times, 
Appal not him that hath no side at all, 

But of himself, and knows the worst can 
fall. 

Although his heart (so near allied to earth) 
Cannot but pity the perplexed state 


Of troublous and distress’d mortality, 

That thus make way unto the ugly birth 
Of their own sorrows, and do still beget 
Affliction upon imbecility; 

Yet seeing thus the course of things must 
run, 

He looks thereon not strange, but as fore- 
done. 

And whilst distraught ambition compasses, 
And is encompass’d; whilst as craft de¬ 
ceives, 

And is deceived ; whilst man doth ransack 
man, 

And builds on blood, and rises by distress, 
And th’ inheritance of desolation leaves 
To great-expecting hopes; he looks there¬ 
on, 

As from the shore of peace, with unwet 
eye, 

And bears no venture in impiety. 

Thus, madam, fares that man, that hath 
prepared 

A rest for his desires, and sees all things 
Beneath him ; and hath 1 earn’d this book 
of man, 

Full of the notes of frailty; and compared 
The best of glory with her sufferings; 

By whom, I see, you labor all you can 
To plant your heart; and set your thoughts 
as near 

His glorious mansion as your powers can 
bear. 

Which, madam, are so soundly fashioned 
By that clear judgment that hath carried 
you 

Beyond the feeble limits of your kind, 

As they can stand against the strongest 
head 

Passion can make; inured to any hue 
The world can cast; that cannot cast that 
mind 

Out of her form of goodness, that doth see 
Both what the best and worst of earth can 
be. 

Which makes, that whatsoever here be¬ 
falls, 

You in the region of yourself remain, 
Where no vain breath of th’ impudent mo¬ 
lests, 

That hath secured within the brazen walls 



-FIRESIDE ENCYCLOPAEDIA OF POETRY. 


234 


Of a clear conscience, that (without all 
stain) 

Rises in peace, in innocency rests; 

Whilst all what Malice from without pro¬ 
cures, 

Shows her own ugly heart, but hurts not 
yours. 

And whereas none rejoice more in re¬ 
venge 

Than women use to do; yet you well 
know, 

That wrong is better checked by being con¬ 
temn’d, 

Than being pursued; leaving to Him t’ 
avenge 

To whom it appertains. Wherein you 
show 

How worthily your clearness hath con¬ 
demn’d 

Base malediction, living in the dark, 

That at the rays of goodness still doth 
bark. 

Knowing the heart of man is set to be 
The centre of this world, about the which 
These revolutions of disturbances 
tstill roll; where all th’ aspects of misery 
Predominate; whose strong effects are such 
As he must bear, being powerless to re¬ 
dress ; 

Vnd that unless above himself he can 
Erect himself, how poor a thing is man! 

And how turmoil’d they are that level lie 
With earth, and cannot lift themselves 
from thence; 

That never are at peace with their desires, 
But work beyond their years; and even 
deny 

Dotage her rest, and hardly will dispense - 
With death: that when ability expires, 
Desire lives , still—so much delight they 
have 

To carry toil and travel to the grave. 

Whose ends you see; and what can be the 
best 

They reach unto, when they have cast the 
sum 

And reckonings of their glory. And you 
know, 

This floating life hath but this port of 
rest, 


A heart prepared, that fears no ill to 
come; 

And that man’s greatness rests but in his 
show, 

The best of all whose days consumed 
are, 

Either in war, or peace conceiving war. 

This concord, madam, of a well-tuned mind 
Hath been so set by that all-working Hand 
Of heaven, that though the world hath 
done his worst 

To put it out by discords most unkind, 

Yet doth it still in perfect union stand 
With God and man; nor ever will be forced 
From that most sweet accord, but still agree, 
Equal in fortune’s inequality. 

And this note, madam, of your worthiness 
Remains recorded in so many hearts, 

As time nor malice cannot wrong your 
right, 

In th’ inheritance of fame you must pos¬ 
sess : 

A"ou that have built you by your great de¬ 
serts 

(Out of small means) a far more exquisite 
And glorious dwelling for your honor’d 
name 

Than all the gold that leaden minds can 
frame. 

Samuel Daniel. 


An Epitaph on Saiathiel Fa vy. 

A Child of Queen Elizabeth’s Chapel. 

Weep with me, all you that read 
This little story; 

And know, for whom a tear you shed 
Death’s self is sorry. 

’Twas a child that so did thrive 
In grace and feature, 

As heaven and nature seem’d to strive 
Which own’d the creature. 

Years he number’d scarce thirteen 
When fates turn’d cruel, 

Yet three fill’d Zodiacs had he been 
The stage’s jewel; 

And did act, what now we moan, 

Old men so duly, 

As, sooth, the Parcae thought him one, 
He play’d so truly. 






PERSONAL POEMS. 


23o 


So by error to his fate 
They all consented; 

But viewing him since, alas, too late ! 

They have repented; 

And have sought, to give new birth, 

In baths to steep him ; 

But being so much too good for earth, 
Heaven vows to keep him. 

* Ben Jonson. 


Epitaph on Elizabeth L. H. 

Wouldst thou heare what man can sav¬ 
in a little?—reader, stay ! 

Underneath this stone doth lye 
As much beauty as could dye ; 

Which in life did harbor give 
To more vertue than doth live. 

If at all she had a fault, 

Leave it buried in this vault. 

One name was Elizabeth—- 
Th’ other, let it sleep with death : 

Fitter, where it dyed to tell, 

Than that it lived at all. Farewell! 

Ben Jonson. 

--- 

Epttapii on the Countess of 
Pembroke. 

Underneath this sable hearse 
Lies the subject of all verse, 

Sidney’s sister, Pembroke’s mother; 
Death! ere thou hast slain another, 
Learn’d and fair and good as she, 
Time shall throw a dart at thee. 

Ben Jonson. 


To Vincent Corbet, my Son. 

What I shall leave thee, none can tell, 
But all shall say I wish thee well. 

I wish thee, Vin, before all wealth, 

Both bodily and ghostly health ; 

Nor too much wealth nor wit come to thee, 
So much of either may undo thee. 

I wish thee learning not for show, 

Enough for to instruct and know; 

Not such as gentlemen require 
To prate at table or at fire. 

I wish thee all thy mother’s graces, 

Thy father’s fortunes and his places. 


I wish thee friends, and one at court, 
Not to build on, but support; 

To keep thee not in doing many 
Oppressions, but from suffering any. 

I wish thee peace in all thy ways, 

Nor lazy nor contentious days; 

And, when thy soul and body part, 

As innocent as now thou art. 

Richard Coruei. 


On Lucy, Countess of Bedford 

This morning, timely rapt with holy fire, 

I thought to form unto my zealous Muse, 

What kind of creature I could most desire, 

To honor, serve, and love; as poets use, 

I meant to make her fair, and free, and 
wise, 

Of greatest blood, and yet more good 
than great; 

I meant the day-star should not brighter 
rise, 

Nor lend like influence from his lucent 
seat. 

I meant she should be courteous, facile, 
sweet, 

Hating that solemn vice of greatness, 
pride; 

I meant each softest virtue there should 
meet, 

Fit in that softer bosom to reside. 

Only a learned and a manly soul 

I purposed her; that should, with even 
powers, 

The rock, the spindle, and the shears 
control 

Of Destiny, and spin her own free 
hours. 

Such when I meant to feign, and wish’d to 
see, 

My Muse bade, Bedford write, and that 
was she. 

Ben Jonson. 

of Myself. 

This only grant me, that my means may 
lie 

Too low for envy, for contempt too high. 
Some honor I would have, 

Not from great deeds, but good alone ; 

The unknown are better than ill known r 
Humor can ope the grave. 











23(5 


FIRESIDE ENCYCLOPAEDIA OF POETRY. 


Acquaintance I would have, but when’t 
depends 

Not on the number, but the choice, of j 
friends. 

Books should, not business, entertain the J 
light, 

And sleep, as undisturb’d as death, the ! 
night. 

My house a cottage more 
Than palace ; and should fitting he 
For all my use, no luxury. 

My garden painted o’er 
With Nature’s hand, not Art’s; and pleas¬ 
ures yield, 

Horace might envy in his Sabine field. 

Thus would I double my life’s fading space; 
For he that runs it well twice runs his 
race. 

And in this true delight, 

These unbought sports, this happy state, 

I would not fear, nor wish, my fate ; 

But boldly say each night, 

To-morrow let my sun his beams display, 

Or in clouds hide them; I have lived to¬ 
day. 

Abraham Cowley. 

Sonnet. 

To the Lord General Cromwell. 

Cromwell, our chief of men, who through : 
a cloud 

Not of war only, but detractions rude, 

(Juided by faith and matchless fortitude, 
To peace and truth thy glorious way hast 
plough’d 

And on the neck of crowned fortune proud 

Hast rear’d God’s trophies, and his 
work pursued, 

While Darwen stream with blood of 
Scots imbrued, 

And Dunbar field resounds thy praises 
loud, 

And Worcester’s laureat wreath. Yet i 
much remains 

To conquer still; peace hath her vic¬ 
tories 

No less reuown’d than war. New foes 
arise 

Threatening to bind our souls with secular 
chains; ( 


Help us to save free conscience from the 
paw 

Of hireling wolves, whose gospel is their 
maw. 

John Milton. 

Sonnet. 

To Cyriac Skinner. 

Cyriac, this three years day these eyes, 
tho’ clear 

To outward view of blemish or of spot, 

Bereft of light, their seeing have forgot; 

Nor to their idle orbs doth sight appear 

Of sun, or moon, or star, throughout the 
year, 

Or man, or woman. Yet I argue not 

Against Heaven’s hand or will, nor bate 
a jot 

Of heart or hope ; but still bear up and 
steer 

Right onward. What supports me, dost 
thou ask ? 

The conscience, friend, t’ have lost them 
overplied 

In liberty’s defence, my noble task, 

Of which all Europe rings from side to 
side. 

This thought might lead me through the 
world’s vain mask, 

Content though blind, had I no better 
guide. 

John Milton. 

Sonnet 

On his Blindness. 

When I consider how my light is spent, 

Ere half my days in this dark world 
and wide, 

And that one talent which is death to 
hide, 

Lodged with me useless, though my soul 
more bent 

To serve therewith my Maker, and present 

My true account, lest He returning chide; 

“ Doth God exact day-labor, light de¬ 
nied ?” 

I fondly ask : but Patience, to prevent 

That murmur, soon replies, “ God doth 
not need 

Either man’s work or his own gifts : who 
best 






PERSONAL POEMS. 


237 


Rear his mild yoke, they serve him best: 
his state 

Is kingly; thousands at his biddingspeed, 
And post o’er land and ocean without rest; 
They also serve who only stand and 
wait.” 

John Milton. 

Miltons Prayer of Patience. 

I am old and blind ! 

Men point at me as smitten by God’s 
frown ; 

Afflicted and deserted of my kind, 

Yet am I not cast down. 

I am weak, yet strong ; 

I murmur not that I no longer see ; 

Poor, old, and helpless, I the more belong, 
Father Supreme! to Thee. 

All-merciful One! 

When men are furthest, then art Thou most 
near; 

When friends pass by, my weaknesses to 
shun, 

Thy chariot I hear. 

Thy glorious face 

Is leaning toward me ; and its holy light 
Shines in upon my lonely dwelling-place,— 
And there is no more night. 

On my bended knee 
I recognize Thy purpose clearly shown: 
My vision Thou hastdimm’d, that I may see 
Thyself,—Thyself alone. 

-I have naught to fear ; 

This darkness is the shadow of Thy wing; 
Beneath it I am almost sacred; here 
Can come no evil thing. 

Oh, I seem to stand 

Trembling, where foot of mortal ne’er hath 
been, 

Wrapp’d in that radiance from the sinless 
land, 

Which eye hath never seen ! 

Visions come and go : 

Shapes of resplendent beauty round me 
throng; 

From angel lips I seem to hear the flow 
Of soft and holy song. 


It is nothing now, 

When heaven is opening on my sightless 
eyes, 

When airs from Paradise refresh my brow, 
The earth in darkness lies. 

In a purer clime 

My being fills with rapture,—waves of 
thought 

Roll in upon my spirit,—strains sublime 
Break over me unsought. 

Give me now my lyre ! 

I feel the stirrings of a gift divine: 

Within my bosom glows unearthly fire, 

Lit by no skill of mine. 

Elizabeth Lloyd Howell. 

To the Lady Margaret Ley 

Daughter to that good earl, once Presi¬ 
dent 

Of England’s Council, and her Treasury, 
Who lived in both, unstain’d with gold 
or fee, 

And left them both, more in himself con¬ 
tent, 

Till the sad breaking of that Parliament 
Broke him, as that dishonest victory 
At Chseronea, fatal to liberty, 

Kill’d with report that old man eloquent. 

Though later born than to have known the 
days 

Wherein your father flourish’d, yet by 
you, 

Madam, methinks I see him living yet; 

So well your words his noble virtues praise, 
That all both judge you to relate them 
true, 

And to possess them, honor’d Margaret. 

John Milton. 

Lycidas. 

Yet once more, O ye laurels, and once 
more 

Ye myrtles brown, with ivy never sere, 

I come to pluck your berries harsh and 
crude, 

And with forced fingers rude 

Shatter your leaves before the mellowing 
year. 

Bitter constraint, and sad occasion dear, 









FIRESIDE ENCYCLOPAEDIA OF POETR 1 


238 


Compels me to disturb your season due; 
For Lycidas is dead, dead ere his prime, 
Young Lycidas, and hath not left his 
peer. 

Who would not sing for Lycidas? he 
knew 

Himself to sing, and build the lofty 
rhyme. 

He must not float upon his watery bier 
Unwept, and welter to the parching wind, 
Without the meed of some melodious tear. 

Begin then, sisters of the sacred well, 
That from beneath the seat of Jove doth 
spring, 

Begin, and somewhat loudly sweep the 
string. 

Hence with denial vain, and coy excuse; 
So may some gentle muse 
With lucky words favor my destined urn, 
And as he passes turn, 

And bid foil - peace be to my sable shroud. 
For we were nursed upon the self-same 
hill, 

Fed the same flock by fountain, shade, 
and rill. 

Together both, ere the high lawns ap¬ 
pear’d 

Under the opening eyelids of the morn, 
We drove a-field, and both together heard 
What time the gray-flv winds her sultry 
horn, 

Batt’ning our flocks with the fresh dews 
of night 

Oft till the star that rose at evening bright 
Toward heaven’s descent had sloped his 
west’ring wheel. 

Meanwhile the rural ditties were not mute, 
Temper’d to th’ oaten flute; 

Bough satyrs danced and fauns with cloven 
heel 

From the glad song would not be absent 
long, 

And old Damcetus loved to hear our song. 

But oh, the heavy change, now thou art 
gone— 

Now thou art gone, and never must re¬ 
turn ! 

Thee, shepherd, thee the woods, and desert 
caves, 

With wild thyme and the gadding vine 
o’ergrown, 

And all their echoes, mourn ; 


The willows, and the hazel copses green, 
Shall now no more be seen, 

Fanning their joyous leaves to thy soft 
lays. 

As killing as the canker to the rose, 

Or taint-worm to the weanling herds that 
graze, 

Or frost to flowers, that their gav wardrobe 
wear, 

When first the white-thorn blows; 

Such, Lycidas, thy loss to shepherds’ ear. 

Where were ye, nymphs, when the re¬ 
morseless deep 

j Closed o’er the head of vour loved Ly¬ 
cidas? 

For neither were ye playing on the steep. 
Where your old bards, the famous druids, 
lie, 

Nor on the shaggy top of Mona high, 

Nor yet where Deva spreads her wizard 
stream. 

Ay me! I fondly dream ! 

Had ye been there, for what could that 
have done? 

What could the muse herself that Orpheus 
bore, 

The muse herself for her enchanting son, 
Whom universal Nature did lament, 

I When, by the rout that made the hideous 
roar, 

His gory vision down the stream was sent, 
Down the swift Hebrus to the Lesbian 
shore ? 

Alas! what boots it with incessant care 
To tend the homely, slighted shepherd’s 
trade, 

And strictly meditate the thankless muse? 
Were it not better done, as others use, 

To sport with Amaryllis in the shade, 
l Or with the tangles of Nea?ra’s hair? 

Fame is the spur that the clear spirit doth 
raise 

(That last infirmity of noble mind) 

To scorn delights and live laborious days ; 
But the fair guerdon when we hope to find, 

1 And think to burst out into sudden blaze, 
Comes the blind fury with th’ abhorred 
shears, 

And slits the thin-spun life. But not the 
praise, 

Phoebus replied, and touch’d my tremb 
I ling ears; 









PERSONAL POEMS. 


Fame is no plant that grows on mortal 
soil, 

Nor in the glistering foil 
Set oft’ to th’ world, nor in broad rumor 
lies; 

But lives and spreads aloft by those pure 
eyes 

And perfect witness of all-judging Jove; 
As he pronounces lastly on each deed, 

Of so much fame in heaven expect thy 
meed. 

O fountain Arethuse, and thou honor’d 
flood, 

Smooth-sliding Mincius, crown’d with 
vocal reeds, 

That strain 1 heard was of a higher mood; 
But now mv oat proceeds, 

And listens to the herald of the sea 
That came in Neptune’s plea ; 

He ask’d the waves, and ask’d the felon 
winds, 

What hard mishap hath doom’d this gentle 
swain ? 

And question’d every gust of rugged 
wings 

That blows from off each beaked promon¬ 
tory : 

They knew not of his story ; 

And sage Hippotades their answer brings, 
That not a blast was from his dungeon 
stray’d; 

The air was calm, and on the level brine 
Sleek Panope with all her sisters play’d. 

It was that fatal and perfidious bark, 

Built in th’ eclipse, and rigg’d with curses 
dark, 

That sunk so low that sacred head of thine. 

Next Camus, reverend sire, went footing 
slow, 

His mantle hairy, and his bonnet sedge, 
Inwrought with figures dim, and on the 
edge 

Like to that sanguine flower inscribed 
with woe. 

Ah ! who hath reft (quoth he) my dearest 
pledge ? 

Last came, and last did go, 

The pilot of the Galilean Lake; 

Two massy keys he bore of metals twain 
(The golden opes, the iron shuts amain) ; 
He shook his mitred locks, and stern be- 
spake: 


23'J 


How well could I have spared for thee, 
young swain, 

! Enow of such as for their hellies’ sake 

Creep, and intrude, and climb into the 
fold ? 

Of other care they little reckoning make, 

Than how to scramble at the shearers’ feast, 

And shove away the worthy bidden guest; 

Blind mouths! that scarce themselves 
know how to hold 

A sheep-hook, or have learn’d aught else 
the least 

That to the faithful herdsman’s art be¬ 
longs ! 

What recks it them ? what need they ? they 
are sped ; 

And when they list, their lean and flashy 
songs 

Grate on their scrannel pipes of wretched 
straw; 

The hungry sheep look up, and are not fed, 

But swoln with wind and the rank mist 
they draw, 

Rot inwardly, and foul contagion spread ; 

Besides what the grim wolf with privy 
paw 

> Daily devours apace, and nothing said ; 

; But that two-handed engine at the door 

I Stands ready to smite once, and smite no 
more. 

i Return, Alpheus, the dread voice is past 

I That shrunk thy streams : return, Sicilian 
muse, 

And call the vales, and bid them hither 
cast 

Their bells, and flow’rets of a thousand 
hues. 

j Ye valleys low, where the mild whispers 
use 

| Of shades, and wanton winds, and gushing 
brooks, 

On whose fresh lap the swart-star sparely 
looks, 

Throw hither all your quaint enamell’d 
eyes, 

That on the green turf suck the honey’d 
showers, 

And purple all the ground with vernal 
flowers. 

Bring the rathe primrose that forsaken 
dies, 

The tufted crow-toe, and pale jessamine, 









240 


FIRESIDE ENCYCLOPEDIA OF POETRY. 


The white pink, and the pansy freak’d 
with jet, 

The glowing violet, 

The musk-rose, and the well-attired wood¬ 
bine, 

With cowslips wan that hang the pensive 
head, 

And every flower that sad embroidery 
wears; 

Bid amaranthus all his beauty shed, 

And daffodillies fill their cups with tears, 
To strew thelaureat hearse where Lvcid lies. 
For so to interpose a little ease, 

Let our frail thoughts dally with false sur¬ 
mise. 

Ay me! whilst thee the shores and sound¬ 
ing seas 

Wash far away where’er thy bones are 
hurl’d, 

Whether beyond the stormy Hebrides, 
Where thou perhaps under the whelming 
tide 

Yisit’st the bottom of the monstrous world ; 
Or whether thou, to our moist vows denied, 
Bleep’st by the fable of Bellerus old, 
Where the great vision of the guarded 
mount 

Looks toward Namancos and Bayona’s 
hold; 

Look homeward angel now, and melt with 
ruth! 

And, O ye dolphins, waft the hapless 
youth! 

Weep no more, woeful shepherds, weep 
no more! 

For Lycidas your sorrow is not dead, 

Bunk though he be beneath the watery 
floor. 

Bo sinks the day-star in the ocean bed, 
And yet anon repairs his drooping head, 
And tricks his beams, and with new- 
spangled ore 

Flames in the forehead of the morning sky ; 
Bo Lycidas sunk low, but mounted high, 
Through the dear might of Him that 
walk’d the waves, 

Where, other groves and other streams 
along, 

With nectar pure his oozy locks he laves, 
And hears the unexpressive nuptial song, 
In the blest kingdoms meek of joy and 
love. 


There entertain him all the saints above, 
In solemn troops and sweet societies, 

That sing, and singing in their glory move, 
And wipe the tears for ever from his eyes. 
Now, Lycidas, the shepherds weep no 
more; 

Henceforth thou art the Genius of the 
shore, 

In thy large recompense, and shalt be good 
To all that wander in that perilous flood. 
Thus sang the uncouth swain to th’ oaks 
and rills, 

While the still morn went out with sandals 
gray ; 

He touch’d the tender stops of various 
quills, 

With eager thought warbling his Doric 
lay. 

And now the sun had stretch’d out all 
the hills, 

And now was dropt into the western bay ; 
At last he rose, and twitch’d his mantle 
blue: 

To-morrow to fresh woods and pastures new. 

John Milton. 

AN IIOR A TIAN ODE. 

Upon Cromwell’s Return from Ire¬ 
land. 

The forward youth that would appear, 
Must now forsake his Muses dear, 

Nor in the shadows sing 
His numbers languishing. 

’Tis time to leave the books in dust, 

And oil the unused armor’s rust, 
Removing from the wall 
The corselet of the hall. 

So restless Cromwell could not cease 
In the inglorious arts of peace, 

But through adventurous war 
UrgM his active star: 

And like the three-fork’d lightning first. 
Breaking the clouds where it was nurst, 
Did thorough his own side 
His fiery Avay divide; 

For ’tis all one to courage high, 
i The emulous, or enemy ; 

And with such, to enclose 
Is more than to oppose. 







PERSONAL POEMS. 


241 


Then burning through the air he went, 
And palaces and temples rent, 

And Caesar’s head at last 
Did through his laurels blast. 

’Tis madness to resist or blame 
The face of angry Heaven’s flame, 

And if we would speak true, 

Much to the Man is due 

Who, from his private gardens, where 
He lived reserved and austere 
(As if his highest plot 
To plant the bergamot), 

Could by industrious valor climb 
To ruin the great work of time, 

And cast the Kingdoms old 
Into another mould. 

Though Justice against Fate complain, 
And plead the ancient rights in vain— 
But those do hold or break 
As men are strong or weak. 

Nature, that hateth emptiness, 

Allows of penetration less, 

And therefore must make room 
Where greater spirits come. 

What field of all the civil war 
Where his were not the deepest scar? 
And Hampton shows what part 
He had of wiser art, 

Where, twining subtle fears w r ith hope, 
He wove a net of such a scope 

That Charles himself might chase 
To Carisbrook’s narrow case ; 

That thence the royal actor borne 
The tragic scaffold might adorn, 

While round the armfed bands 
Did clap their bloody hands; 

He nothing common did or mean 
Upon that memorable scene, 

But with his keener eye 
The axe’s edge did try; 

Nor call’d the gods, with vulgar spite, 
To vindicate his helpless right, 

But bow’d his comely head 
IJ wn, as upon a bed. 

16 


This was that memorable hour 
Which first assured the forced power, 
So when they did design 
The Capitol’s first line, 

A bleeding head, where they begun, 
Did fright the architects to run ; 

And yet in that the State 
Foresaw its happy fate! 

And now the Irish arc ashamed 
To see themselves in one year tamed ; 
So much one man can do 
That does both act and know. 

They can affirm his praises best, 

And have, though overcome, contest 
How good he is, how just, 

And fit for highest trust; 

Nor yet grown stiffer with command, 
But still in the Republic’s hand— 

How fit he is to sway 
That can so well obey! 

He to the Commons’ feet presents 
A Kingdom for his first year’s rents, 
And (what he may) forbears 
His fame, to make it theirs ; 

And has his sword and spoils ungirt, 
To lay them at the public’s skirt. 

So when the falcon high 
Falls heavy from the sky, 

She, having kill’d, no more does search 
But on the next green bough to perch, 
Where, when he first does lure, 
The falconer has her sure. 

What may not then our Isle presume 
While victory his crest does plume? 
What may not others fear 
If thus he crowns each year ? 

As Caesar he, ere long, to Gaul, 

To Italy an Hannibal, 

And to all states not free 
Shall climacteric be. 

The Piet no shelter now shall find 
Within his parti-color’d mind, 

But from this valor, sad 
Shrink underneath the plaid— 





242 


FIRESIDE EN C Y CL OP JED IA OF POETRY. 


Happy if in the tufted brake 
The English hunter him mistake, 

Nor lay his hounds in near 
The Caledonian deer. 

But thou, the War’s and Fortune’s son, 
March indefatigably on, 

And for the last effect 
Still keep the sword erect. 

Besides the force it has to fright 
The spirits of the shady night, 

The same arts that did gain 
A power, must it maintain. 

Andrew Marvell. 

The Picture of T. C. 

In a Prospect of Flowers. 

See with what simplicity 
This nymph begins her golden days! 

Tn the green grass she loves to lie, 

And there with her fair aspect tames 
The wilder flowers, and gives them 
names; 

But only with the roses plays, 

And them does tell 

What color best becomes them, and what 
smell. 

Who can foretell for what high cause 
This darling of the gods was born ? 

See ! this is she whose chaster laws 

The wanton Love shall one day fear, 
And, under her command severe, 

See his bow broke and ensigns torn. 
Happy who can 

Appease this virtuous enemy of man ! 

Oh, then let me in time compound 
And parley with those conquering eyes,— 
Ere they have tried their force to wound, 
Ere with their glancing wheels they 
drive 

In triumph over hearts that strive, 
And them that yield but more despise: 
Let me be laid 

Where I may see the glory from some shade. 

Meanwhile, whilst every verdant thing 
Itself does at thy beauty charm, 

Reform the errors of the spring : 

Make that the tulips may have share 
Of sweetness, seeing they are fair; 
And roses of their thorns disarm ; 


But most procure 

That violets may a longer age endure. 

But, O young beauty of the woods, 

Whom Nature courts with fruit and 
flowers, 

Gather the flowers, but spare the buds, 
Lest Flora, angry at thy crime 
To kill her infants in their prime, 
Should quickly make the example 
yours; 

And, ere we see, 

Nip in the blossom all our hopes in thee. 

Andrew Marvell. 

Lines written under the Pic¬ 
ture of John Milton, 

Before his “Paradise Lost.” 
Three Poets, in three distant ages born, 
Greece, Italy, and England did adorn. 

The first in loftiness of thought sur¬ 
pass’d ; 

The next in majesty ; in both the last. 

The force of Nature could no further go ; 
To make a third, she joined the former two. 

John I>rydkn. 

Sonnet. 

To Milton. 

Milton ! thou sliouldst be living at this 
hour: 

England hath need of thee : she is a fen 
Of stagnant waters: altar, sword, and 
pen, 

Fireside, the heroic wealth of hall and 
bower, 

Have forfeited their ancient English dower 
Of inward happiness. We are selfish 
men : 

Oh raise us up, return to us again ; 

And give us manners, virtue, freedom 
power! 

Thy soul was like a Star, and dwelt apart; 
Thou liadst a voice whose sound was 
like the sea; 

Pure as the naked heavens, majestic 
free, 

So didst thou travel on life’s common way 
In cheerful godliness; and yet thy heart 
The lowliest duties on herself did lay. 

William Wordsworth. 







PERSONA l POEMS. 



Lo palty Confined. 

Beat on, proud billows; Boreas blow ; 

Swell, curled waves, high as Jove’s roof: 
Your incivility doth show, 

That innocence is tempest proof; 

Though surly Kerens frown, my thoughts 
are calm; 

Then strike, Affliction, for thy wounds are 
balm. 

That which the world miscalls a jail, 

A private closet is to me: 

Whilst a good conscience is my bail, 

And innocence my liberty : 

Locks, bars, and solitude, together met, 
Make me no prisoner, but an anchoret. 

I, whilst I wisht to be retired, 

Into this private room was turn’d ; 

As if their wisdoms had conspired 
The salamander should be burn’d : 

Or like those sophists, that would drown a 
fish, 

1 am constrain’d to suffer what 1 wish. 

The cynick loves his poverty : 

The pelican her wilderness; 

And ’tis the Indian’s pride to be 
Naked on frozen Caucasus: 

Contentment cannot smart, Stoieks we see 
Make torments easie to their apathy. 

These manacles upon my arm 
1, as my mistress’ favours, wear; 

And for to keep my ankles warm, 

I have some iron shackles there: 

These walls are but my garrison ; this cell, 
Which men call jail, doth prove my cit¬ 
adel. 

I’m in the cabinet lockt up, 

Like some high-prized margarite, 

< )r, like the great mogul or pope, 

Am cloyster’d up from publick sight: 
Retired ness is a piece of majesty, 

And thus, proud sultan, I’m as great as 
thee. 

Here sin for want of food must starve, 
Where tempting objects are not seen ! 
And these strong walls do only serve 
To keep vice out, and keep me in : 
Malice of late’s grown charitable, sure, 

I’m not committed, but am kept secure. 


So he that struck at Jason’s life, 

Thinking t’ have made his purpose sure, 
By a malicious friendly knife 
Did only wound him to a cure: 

Malice, I see, wants wit; for what is meant 
Mischief, oft-times proves favour by th’ 
event. 

When once my prince affliction hath, 
Prosperity doth treason seem ; 

And to make smooth so rough a path, 

I can learn patifence from him : 

Now not to suffer shows no loyal heart, 
When kings want ease subjects must bear 
a part. 

What though I cannot see mv king 
Neither in person nor in coin ; 

Yet contemplation is a thing 
That renders what I have not, mine: 

My king from me what adamant can part, 
Whom I do wear engraven on my heart! 

Have you not seen the nightingale, 

A prisoner like, coopt in a cage, 

How doth she chaunt her wonted tale, 

In that her narrow hermitage! 

Even then her charming melody doth 
prove, 

That all her bars are trees, her cage a grove. 

I am that bird, whom they combine 
Thus to deprive of liberty ; 

But though they do my corps confine, 

Yet maugre hate, my soul is free; 

And though immured, yet can I chirp, and 
sing 

Disgrace to rebels, glory to my king. 

My soul is free, as ambient air, 

Although my baser part’s immew’d, 
Whilst loyal thoughts do still repair 
T’ accompany my solitude: 

Although rebellion do my body binde, 

My king alone can captivate my minde. 

Sir Roger L’Estkanoe. 

EPITA PH EX TEMPO R E. 

Nobles and heralds, by your leave, 

Here lies what once was Matthew Prior, 
The son of Adam and of Eve ; 

Can Stuart or Nassau claim higher? 

Matthew Prior. 







244 


FIRESIDE ENCYCLOPAEDIA OF POETRY. 


Prologue to Mr. Addison's 
Tragedy of “Cato.” 

To wake the soul by tender strokes of art, 
To raise the genius, and to mend the heart, 
To make mankind, in conscious virtue 
bold, 

Live o’er each scene, and be what they 
behold: 

For this the tragic Muse first trod the 
stage, 

Commanding tears to stream through every 
age; 

Tyrants no more their savage nature kept, 
And foes to virtue wonder’d how they 
wept. 

Our author shuns by vulgar springs to 
move 

The hero’s glory, or the virgin’s love; 

In pitying love, we but our weakness show, 
And wild ambition well deserves its woe. 
Here tears shall flow from a more gener¬ 
ous cause. 

Such tears as patriots shed for dying laws: 
He bids your breasts with ancient ardor 
rise, 

And calls forth Roman drops from British 
eyes. 

Virtue confess’d in human shape he draws, 
What Plato thought, and godlike Cato 
was: 

No common object to your sight displays, 
But what with pleasure Heaven itself sur¬ 
veys, 

A brave man struggling in the storms of 
fate, 

And greatly falling, with a falling state. 
While Cato gives his little senate laws, 
What bosom beats not in his country’s 
cause ? 

Who sees him act, but envies every deed? 
Who hears him groan, and does not wish 
to bleed? 

Even when proud Caesar, ’midst triumphal 
cars, 

The spoils of nations, and the pomp of 
wars, 

Ignobly vain, and impotently great, 
Show’d Rome her Cato’s figure drawn in 
state; 

As her dead father’s reverend image pass’d 
The pomp was darken’d, and the day 
o’ereast; 


The triumph ceased, tears gush’d from 
every eye; 

The world’s great victor pass’d unheeded 

by; 

Her last good man dejected Rome adored. 

And honor’d Caesar’s less than Cato’.- 
sword. 

Britons, attend: be worth like this ap¬ 
proved, 

And show you have the virtue to be moved. 

With honest scorn the first famed Cato 
view’d 

Rome learning arts from Greece, whom 
she subdued; 

Your scene precariously subsists too long 

On French translation, and Italian song. 

Dare to have sense yourselves; assert the 
stage, 

Be justly warm’d with your own native 
rage: 

Such plays alone should win a British 
ear, 

As Cato’s self had not disdain’d to hear. 

Alexander Pope. 


To the Earl of Warwick ox the 
Death of Mr. Addison. 

If, dumb too long, the drooping Muse hath 
stay’d, 

And left her debt to Addison unpaid, 

Blame not her silence, Warwick, but be¬ 
moan, 

And judge, oh judge my bosom by your 
own. 

What mourner ever felt poetic fires? 

Slow comes the verse that real woe 
inspires; 

j Grief unaffected suits but ill with art, 
j Or flowing numbers with a bleeding heart. 

Can I forget the dismal night that gave 

My soul’s best part for ever to the grave ? 

How silent did his old companions tread, 

By midnight lamps, the mansions of the 
dead, 

Through breathing statues, then unheeded 
things, 

Through rows of warriors, and through 
walks of kings! 

What awe did the slow, solemn knell 
inspire; 

The pealing organ, and the pausing choir; 







PERSONAL POEMS. 


245 


The duties by the lawn-robed prelate 
paid; 

And the last words, that dust to dust con¬ 
vey’d ? 

While speechless o’er thy closing grave we 
bend, 

Accept these tears, thou dear, departed 
friend. 

Oh, gone for ever! take this long adieu ; 

And sleep in peace, next thy loved Mon¬ 
tague. 

To strew fresh laurels let the task be 
mine, 

A frequent pilgrim, at thy sacred shrine; 

Mine with true sighs thy absence to be¬ 
moan 

And grave with faithful epitaphs thy 
stone. 

I f e’er from me thy loved memorial part, 

May shame afflict this alienated heart; 

< )f thee forgetful, if I form a song, 

My lyre be broken, and untuned my 
tongue; 

My grief be doubled from thy image free, 

And mirth a torment, unchastised by thee. 

Oft let me range the gloomy aisles alone, 

Sad luxury ! to vulgar minds unknown; 

Along the walls where speaking marbles 
show 

What worthies form the hallow’d mould 
below; 

Proud names, who once the reins of empire 
held; 

In arms who triumph’d, or in arts excell’d; 

Chiefs, graced with scars, and prodigal of 
hlood; 

Stern patriots, who for sacred freedom 
stood; 

Just men, by whom impartial laws were 
given; 

And saints who taught, and led, the way 
to heaven ; 

Ne’er to these chambers, where the mighty 
rest, 

Since their foundation, came a nobler 
guest; 

Nor e’er was to the bowers of bliss con¬ 
vey’d 

A fairer spirit or more welcome shade. 

In what new region to the just assign’d, 

What new employments please tli’ un¬ 
bodied mind? I 


A winged Virtue, through th’ ethereal sky, 
From world to world unwearied does he 
fly? 

Or curious trace the long, laborious maze 
Of Heaven’s decrees, where wondering 
angels gaze ? 

Does he delight to hear bold seraphs tell 
How Michael battled, and the dragon fell; 
Or, mix’d with milder cherubim, to glow 
In hymns of love, not ill essay’d below? 
Or dost thou warn poor mortals left be¬ 
hind ?— 

A task well suited to thy gentle mind. 

Oh! if sometimes thy spotless form de¬ 
scend ; 

To me, thy aid, thou guardian genius, 
lend! 

When rage misguides me, or when fear 
alarms, 

When pain distresses, or when pleasure 
charms, 

In silent whisperings purer thoughts im¬ 
part, 

And turn from ill a frail and feeble heart; 
Lead through the paths thv virtue trod 
before, 

Till bliss shall join, nor death can part us 
more. 

That awful form, which, so the heavens 
decree, 

Must still be loved and still deplored by me, 
In nightly visions seldom fails to rise, 

Or, roused by fancy, meets my waking eyes. 
If business calls, or crowded courts invite, 
Th’ unblemish’d statesman seems to strike 
my sight; 

If in the stage I seek to soothe my care, 

I meet his soul which breathes in Cato 
there; 

If pensive to the rural shades I rove, 

His shape o’ertakes me in the lonely grove; 
’Twas there of just and good he reason’d 
strong, 

Clear’d some great truth, or raised some 
serious song, 

There patient show’d us the wise course to 
steer, 

A candid censor, and a friend severe; 
There taught us how to live; and toll too 
high 

The price for knowledge!) taught us how 
to die. 








24(5 


FIRESIDE ENCYCLOPAEDIA OF POETRY. 


Thou Hill, whose brow the antique struc¬ 
tures grace, 

Rear’d by bold chiefs of Warwick’s noble 
race, 

Why, once so loved, whene’er thy bower 
appears, 

O’er my dim eyeballs glance the sudden 
tears! 

How sweet were once thy prospects fresh 
and fair, 

Thy sloping walks, and unpolluted air! 

How sweet the glooms beneath thy aged 
trees, 

Thy noontide shadow, aijd thy evening 
breeze! 

His image thy forsaken bowers restore; 

Thy walks and airy prospects charm no 
more; 

No more the summer in thy glooms allay’d, 

Thy evening breezes, and thy noonday 
shade. 

From other hills, however Fortune frown’d, 

Some refuge in the Muse’s art I found; 

Reluctant now I touch the trembling string, 

Bereft of him, who taught me how to sing; 

And these sad accents, murmur’d o’er his 
urn, 

Betray that absence they attempt to 
mourn. 

Oh! must I then (now fresh my bosom 
bleeds, 

And Graggs in death to Addison succeeds) 

The verse, begun to one lost friend, pro¬ 
long, 

And weep a second in th’ untinish’d song ! 

These works divine, which, on his death¬ 
bed laid 

To thee, 0 Graggs, th’ expiring sage con¬ 
vey’d, 

Great, but ill-omen’d, monument of fame, 

Nor he survived to give, nor thou to 
claim. 

Swift after him thv social spirit flies, 

And close to his, how soon ! thy cortin lies. 

Blest pair! whose union future bards shall 
tell 

In future tongues; each other’s boast! 
farewell, 

Farewell! whom join’d in fame, in friend¬ 
ship tried, 

No chance could sever, nor the grave 
divide. 


Ode on the Death of Mr. 
Thomson. 

In yonder grave a Druid lies 
Where slowly winds the stealing wave! 

The year’s best sweets shall duteous rise, 
To deck its poet’s sylvan grave! 

In yon deep bed of whispering reeds 
His airy harp shall now be laid. 

That he whose heart in sorrow bleeds, 

May love through life the soothing 
shade. 

Then maids and youths shall linger here, 
And, while its sounds at distance swell, 

Shall sadly seem in pity’s ear 

To hear the woodland pilgrim’s knell. 

Remembrance oft shall haunt the shore 
When Thames in summer wreaths is 
drest, 

And oft suspend the dashing oar 
To bid his gentle spirit rest! 

And oft as ease and health retire 
To breezy lawn or forest deep, 

The friend shall view yon whitening spire, 
And ’mid the varied landscape weep. 

But thou, who own’st that earthly bed, 

Ah ! what will every dirge avail ? 

Or tears which love and pity shed, 

That mourn beneath the gliding sail? 

Yet lives there one, whose heedless eye 
Shall scorn thy pale shrine glimmering 
near ? 

With him, sweet bard, may fancy die, 

And joy desert the blooming year. 

But thou, lorn stream, whose sullen tide 
No sedge-crown’d sisters now attend, 

Now waft me from the green hill’s side 
Whose cold turf hides the buried friend ! 

And see, the fairy valleys fade, 

Dun night has veil’d the solemn view! 

Yet once again, dear parted shade, 

Meek Nature’s child, again adieu ! 

The genial meads assign’d to bless 
Thy life, shall mourn thy early doom ; 

Their hinds and shepherd girls shall dress 
With simple hands thy rural tomb. 


TIK).MAS TKKEI.L. 








PERSONAL POEMS. 


24 - 


Long, long, thy stone and pointed clay 
Shall melt the musing Briton’s eyes, 

O vales and wild woods, shall he say, 

In yonder grave your Druid lies! 

William Collins. 

On the Death of Dr. Levett. 

Condemn’d to hope’s delusive mine, 

As on we toil from day to day, 

By sudden blasts, or slow decline, 

Our social comforts drop away. 

Well tried through many a varying year, 
See Levett to the grave descend, 

Officious, innocent, sincere, 

Of every friendless name the friend. 

Yet still he fills affection’s eye, 

Obscurely wise and coarsely kind; 

Nor, letter’d arrogance, deny 
Thy praise to merit unrefined. 

When fainting Nature call’d for aid, 

And hovering Death prepared the blow, 

His vigorous remedy display’d 
The power of art without the show. 

In misery’s darkest cavern known, 

His useful care was ever nigh, 

Where hopeless anguish pour’d his groan, 
And lonely want retired to die. 

No summons mock’d by chill delay, 

No petty gain disdain’d by pride; 

The modest wants of every day 
The toil of every day supplied. 

His virtues walk’d their narrow round, 
Nor made a pause, nor left a void; 

And sure the Eternal Master found 
The single talent well employ’d. 

The busy day, the peaceful night, 

Unfelt, uncounted, glided by; 

His frame was firm, his powers were bright, 
Though now his eightieth year was 
nigh. 

Then with no fiery throbbing pain, 

No cold gradations of decay, 

Death broke at once the vital chain, 

And freed his soul the nearest way. 

Samuel Johnson. 


To Mrs. Unwin. 

Mary! I want a lyre with other strings. 
Such aid from heaven as some have 
feign’d they drew, 

An eloquence scarce given to mortals, 
new 

And undebased by praise of meaner things, 

That ere through age or woe I shed my 
wings 

I mav record thv worth with honor due. 
In verse as musical as thou art true, 

| And that immortalizes whom it sings. 

But thou hast little need. There is a Book 
Bv seraphs writ with beams of heavenly 
light, 

On which the eyes of God not rarely look, 

A chronicle of actions just and bright— 
There all thv deeds, my faithful Mary, 
shine: 

And since thou own’st that praise, I spare 
thee mine. 

William Cow per. 

To Mary. 

The twentieth year is well-nigh past 
Since first our sky was overcast; 

Ah, would that this might be the last! 
My Mary! 

Thy spirits have a fainter flow, 

I see thee daily weaker grow— 

’Twas my distress that brought thee low , 
My Mary! 

i Thy needles, once a shining store, 

For my sake restless heretofore, 

Now 7 rust disused, and shine no more ; 
My Mary! 

For though thou gladly wouldst fulfil 
The same kind office for me stiB, 

Thy sight now 7 seconds not thy will, 

My Mary! 

But w 7 ell thou play’dst the housewife’s 
part, 

And all thy threads with magic ai t 
Have wound themselves about this heart, 
My Mary! 









248 


FIRESIDE ENCYCLOPAEDIA OF POETRY. 


Thy indistinct expressions seem 
Like language utter’d in a dream ; 

Yet me they charm, whate’er the theme, 
My Mary! 

Thy silver locks, once auburn bright, 
Are still more lovely in ray sight 
Than golden beams of Orient light, 

My Mary! 

For could I view nor them nor thee, 
What sight worth seeing could I see? 
The sun would rise in vain for me, 

My Mary! 

Partakers of thy sad decline, 

Thy hands their little force resign ; 

Yet gently press’d, press gently mine, 
My Mary! 

Such feebleness of limbs thou prov’st 
That now at every step thou mov’st 
Upheld by two ; yet still thou lov’st, 

My Mary! 

And still to love, though press’d with ill, 
In wintry age to feel no chill, 

With me is to be lovely still, 

My Mary! 

But ah ! by constant heed I know 
How oft the sadness that I show 
Transforms thy smiles to looks of woe, 
My Mary! 

And should my future lot be cast 
With much resemblance of the past, 
Thy worn-out heart will break at last— 
My Mary! 

William Cowper. 

Cowper’S Grave. 

It is a place where poets crown’d may feel 
the heart’s decaying; 

It is a place where happy saints may weep 
amid their praying, 

Yet let the grief and humbleness as low as 
silence languish: 

Earth surely now may give her calm to 
whom she gave her anguish. 

0 poets, from a maniac’s tongue was pour’d 
the deathless singing! 

0 Christians, at your cross of hope a hope¬ 
less hand was clinging ! 


0 men, this man in brotherhood your 
weary paths beguiling, 

Groan’d inly while he taught you peace, 
and died while ye were smiling! 

And now, what time ye all may read 
through dimming tears his story, 
How discord on the music fell and dark¬ 
ness on the glory, 

And how when, one by one, sweet sounds 
and wandering lights departed, 

He wore no less a loving face because so 
broken-hearted,— 

He shall be strong to sanctify the poet’s 
high vocation, 

And bow the meekest Christian down in 
meeker adoration; 

Nor ever shall he be, in praise, by wise or 
good forsaken, 

Named softly as the household name of 
one whom God hath taken. 

With (juiet sadness and no gloom I learn 
to think upon him, 

With meekness that is gratefulness to God 
whose heaven hath Avon him, 

Who suffer’d once the madness-cloud to 
His oavu love to blind him, 

But gently led the blind along where 
breath and bird could find him ; 

And wrought within his shatter’d brain 
such quick poetic senses 
As hills have language for, and stars, har¬ 
monious influences: 

The pulse of deAv upon the grass kept his 
within its number, 

And silent shadows from the trees refresh’d 
him like a slumber. 

Wild timid hares were drawn from woods 
to share his home-caresses, 
Uplooking to his human eyes with sylvan 
tendernesses: 

The very A\ r orld, by God’s constraint, from 
falsehood’s ways removing, 

Its women and its men became, beside him, 
true and loving. 

And though, in blindness, he remain’d un¬ 
conscious of that guiding. 

And things provided came without the 
sAveet sense of providing, 






PERSONAL POEMS. 


249 


He testified this solemn truth, while frenzy 
desolated, 

—Nor man nor nature satisfies whom only 
God created. 

Like a sick child that knoweth not his 
mother while she blesses, 

And drops upon his burning brow the cool¬ 
ness of her kisses,— 

That turns his fever’d eyes around—“ My 
mother ! where’s my mother?”— 

As if such tender words and deeds could 
come from any other!— 

The fever gone, with leaps of heart he sees 1 
her bending o’er him, 

Her face all pale from watchful love, the 
unweary love she bore him!—• 

Thus woke the poet from the dream his 
life’s long fever gave him, 

Beneath those deep pathetic eyes which * 
closed in death to save him. 

Thus? oh, not thus! no type of earth can 
image that awaking, 

Wherein he scarcely heard the chant of 
seraphs, round him breaking, 

Or felt the new immortal throb of soul 
from body parted, 

But felt those eyes alone, and knew,—' “My 
Saviour! not deserted!” 

Deserted! Who hath dreamt that when 
the cross in darkness rested, 

Upon the Victim’s hidden face no love was 
manifested? 

What frantic hands outstretch’d have e’er 
th’ atoning drops averted ? 

What tears have wash’d them from the 
soul, that one should be deserted? 

Deserted! God could separate from His 
own essence rather; 

And Adam’s sins have swept between the 
righteous Son and Father: 

Yea, once, Immanuel’s orphan’d cry His 
universe hath shaken— 

It went up single,echoless, “My God, I am 
forsaken !” 

It went up from the Holy’s lips amid His 
lost creation, 

That, of the lost, no son should use those 
words of desolation ! > 


That earth’s worst frenzies, marring hope, 
should mar not hope’s fruition, 

And I, on Cowper’s grave, should see his 
rapture in a vision. 

Elizabeth Barrett Browning. 

Elegy on Captain Matthew 
Henderson, 

A Gentleman who held the Patent for 
his Honors immediately from Al¬ 
mighty God. 

“Should the poor be flattered?”—S hakespeare. 

O Death ! thou tyrant fell and bloody ! 
The meikle devil wi’ a woodie 
Haurl thee hame to his black smiddie, 
O’er hurcheon hides, 
And like stock-fish come o’er his studdie 
Wi’ thy auld sides! 

He’s gane ! lie’s gane ! lie’s frae us torn, 
The ae best fellow e’er was born ! 

Thee, Matthew, Nature’s sel’ shall mourn 
By wood and wild, 
Where, haply, Pity strays forlorn, 

Frae man exiled. 

Ye hills, near neibors o’ the starns, 

That proudly cock your cresting cairns ! 
Ye cliffs, the haunts of sailing earns, 

Where echo slumbers! 
Come join, ye Nature’s sturdiest bairns, 
My wailing numbers! 

Mourn, ilka grove the cushat kens! 

Ye haz’ly shaws and briery dens ! 

Ye burnies, wimplin’ down your glens, 

Wi’ toddlin’ din, 

Or foaming strang, wi’ hasty stens, 

Frae lin to lin ! 

Mourn, little harebells o’er the lea; 

Ye stately foxgloves, fair to see; 

Ye woodbines, hanging bonnilie, 

In scented bow’rs; 

Ye roses on your thorny tree, 

The first o’ flow’rs. 

At dawn, when ev’ry grassy blade 
Droops with a diamond at its head. 

At ev'n, when beans their fragrance shed 
I’ th’ rustling gak, 

Ye maukins whiddin thro’ the glade, 
Come join my wail. 









250 


FIRESIDE EE CYCLOP. EDI. I OF POETRY. 


Mourn, ye wee songsters o’ the wood ; 

Ye grouse that crap the heather bud ; 

Ye curlews calling thro’ a clud ; 

Ye whistling plover; 

An’ mourn, ye whirring paitrick brood!— 
He’s gane for ever ! 

Mourn, sooty coots, and speckled teals; 

Ye fisher herons, watching eels : 

Ye duck and drake, wi’ airy wheels 
Circling the lake ; 

Ye bitterns, till the quagmire reels, 

Rair for his sake. 

Mourn, clam’ring eraiks, at close o’ day, 
’Mang fields o’ fiow’ring clover gay; 

And when ye wing your annual way 

Frae our cauld shore, 
Tell thae far warlds, wha lies in clay, 
Wham we deplore. 

Ye houlets, frae your ivy bow’r, 

In some auld tree or eldritch tow’r, 

What time the moon, wi’ silent glow’r, 
Sets up her horn, 

Wail thro’ the dreary midnight hour 
Till waukrife morn! 

O rivers, forests, hills, and plains! 

Oft have ye heard my cantie strains: 

But now what else for me remains 
But tales of woe ? 

And frae my een the drapping rains 
Maun ever flow. 

Mourn, Spring, thou darling of the year ! 
Ilk cowslip cup shall kep a tear : 

Thou Simmer, while each corny spear 
Shoots up its head, 

Thv gay, green, flow’rv tresses shear 
For him that’s dead. 

Thou Autumn, wi’ thy yellow hair, 
in grief thy sallow mantle tear! 

Thou, Winter, hurling thro’ the air 
The roaring blast, 

Wide o’er the naked world declare 

The worth we’ve lost! 

Mourn him, thou Sun, great source of 
light! 

Mourn, Km press of the silent night! 


And you, ye twinkling starnies bright 
My Matthew mourn ! 
For through your orbs he's ta’en his High' 
Ne’er to return. 

0 Henderson ! the man—the brother! 
And art thou gone, and gone for ever? 
And hast thou crost that unknown river 
Life's dreary bound ? 
Like thee, where shall I find another, 

The world around ? 

Go to your sculptured tombs, ye great, 

In a’ the tinsel trash o’ state ! 

But by thy honest turf I'll wait, 

Thou man of worth ! 
And weep the ae best fellow’s fate 
E’er lay in earth. 

The Epitaph. 

Stop, passenger !—my story’s brief, 

And truth I shall relate, man ; 

I tell nae common tale o’ grief— 

For Matthew was a great man. 

If thou uncommon merit hast, 

Yet spurn’d at fortune’s door, man, 

A look of pity hither cast— 

For Matthew was a poor man. 

If thou a noble sodger art, 

That passest bv this grave, man, 

There moulders here a gallant heart— 

For Matthew was a brave man. 

If thou on men, their works and ways, 
Canst throw uncommon light, man, 
Here lies wha weel had won thy praise— 
For Matthew was a bright man. 

If thou at Friendship’s sacred ca’ 

Wad life itself resign, man, 

Thy sympathetic tear maun fa’— 

For Matthew was a kind man. 

If thou art staunch without a stain, 

Like the unchanging blue, man, 

This was a kinsman, o’ thy ain— 

For Matthew was a true man. 

If thou hast wit, and fun, and fire, 

And ne’er guid wine did fear, man, 

This was thy billie, dam, and sire—■ 

For Matthew was a queer man. 






PERSONA L POEMS. 


2.31 


If ony whiggish whingin sot, 

To blame poor Matthew dare, man, 
May dool and sorrow be his lot! 

For Matthew was a rare man. 

But now his radiant course is run, 

For Matthew’s was a bright one ! 
llis soul was like the glorious sun, 

A matchless, heav’nly light, man. 

Robert Burns. 

Burns. 

To a Rosb; brought from near Ali,o- 
way Kirk, in Ayrshire, in the Au¬ 
tumn of 1822 . 

Wild rose of Allowav ! my thanks: 

Thou ’mind’st me of that autumn noon 

When first we met upon “ the banks 
And braes o’ bonny Doon.” 

Like thine, beneath the thorn tree’s bough, 
My sunny hour was glad and brief; 

We’ve cross’d the winter sea, and thou 
Art wither’d—flower and leaf. 

And will not thy death-doom be mine— 
The doom of all things wrought- of 
clay? 

And wither’d my life’s leaf like thine, 
Wild rose of Alloway? 

Not so his memory for whose sake 
My bosom bore thee far and long— 

His, who a humbler flower could make 
Immortal as his song, 

The memory of Burns—a name 
That calls, when brimm’d her festal 
cup, 

A nation’s glory and her shame, 

In silent sadness up. 

A nation’s glory—be the rest 

Forgot—she’s canonized his mind. 

And it is joy to speak the best 
We may of humankind. 

I’ve stood beside the cottage-bed 
Where the bard - peasant first drew 
breath ; 

A straw-thatch’d roof above his head, 

A straw-wrought couch beneath. 


1 And I have stood beside the pile, 

His monument—that tells to Heaven 
The homage of earth’s proudest isle 
To that bard-peasant given. 

Bid thy thoughts hover o’er that spot, 
Boy-minstrel, in tliy dreaming hour; 
And know, however low his lot, 

A poet’s pride and power; 

The pride that lifted Burns from earth, 
The power that gave a child of song 
Ascendency o’er rank and birth, 

The rich, the brave, the strong; 

And if despondency weigh down 
Thy spirit’s fluttering pinions then, 
Despair—thy name is written on 
The roll of common men. 

There have been loftier themes than his, 
And longer scrolls, and louder lyres, 
And lays lit up with Poesy’s 
Purer and holier fires ; 

Yet read the names that know not death ; 

Few nobler ones than Burns are there; 
And few have won a greener wreath 
Than that which binds his hair. 

His is that language of the heart 

In which the answering heart would 
speak, 

Thought, word, that bids the warm tear 
start, 

Or the smile light the cheek; 

° # 7 

And his that music to whose tone 
The common pulse of man keeps time, 
In cot or castle’s mirth or moan, 

In cold or sunny clime. 

And who hath heard his song, nor knelt 
Before its spell with willing knee, 

And listen’d and believed, and felt 
The poet’s mastery 

O’er the mind’s sea, in calm and storm, 
O’er the heart’s sunshine and its showers, 
O’er Passion’s moments, bright and warm. 
O’er Reason’s dark, cold hours ; 

On fields where brave men “ die or do,” 

In halls where rings the banquet’s mirth, 
Where mourners weep, where lovers woo, 
From throne to cottage hearth? 







252 


FIRESIDE ENCYCLOPAEDIA OF POETRY. 


What sweet tears dim the eye unshed, 
What wild vows falter on the tongue, 
When “ Scots wha hae \vi’ Wallace bled,” 
Or “ Auld Lang Syne,” is sung! 

Pure hopes, that lift the soul above, 

Come with his Cotter’s hymn of praise, 
And dreams of youth, and truth, and love 
With “ Logan’s ” banks and braes. 

And when he breathes his master-lay 
Of Alloway’s witch-haunted wall, 

All passions in our frames of clay 
Come thronging at his call. 

Imagination’s world of air, 

And our own world, its gloom and glee, 
Wit, pathos, poetry, are there, 

And death’s sublimity. 

And Burns—though brief the race he ran, 
Though rough and dark the path he 
trod— 

Lived, died, in form and soul a man, 

The image of his God. 

Through care, and pain, and want, and 
woe, 

With wounds that only death could heal, 
Tortures the poor alone can know, 

The proud alone can feel; 

He kept his honesty and truth, 

His independent tongue and pen, 

And moved, in manhood as in youth, 
Pride of lys fellow-men. 

Strong sense, deep feeling, passions strong, 
A hate of tyrant and of knave, 

A love of right, a scorn of wrong, 

Of coward and of slave; 

A kind, true heart, a spirit high, 

That could not fear, and would not bow, 
Were written in his manly eye 
And on his manly brow. 

Praise to the bard! his words are driven, 
Like flower-seeds by the far winds sown, 
Where’er, beneath the sky of heaven, 

The birds of fame have flown. 

Praise to the man ! a nation stood 
Beside his coffin with wet eyes, 

Her brave, her beautiful, her good, 

As when a loved one dies. 


And still, as on his funeral-day, 

Men stand his cold earth-couch around 
With the mute homage that we pay 
To consecrated ground. 

And consecrated ground it is, 

The last, the hallow’d home of one 
Who lives upon all memories, 

Though with the buried gone. 

Such graves as his are pilgrim-shrines, 
Shrines to no code or creed confined— 
The Delphian vales, the Palestines, 

The Meccas, of the mind. 

Sages, with Wisdom’s garland wreath’d, 
Crown’d kings, and mitred priests of 
power, 

And warriors with their bright swords 
sheath’d, 

The mightiest of the hour; 

And lowlier names, whose humble home 
Ts lit by Fortune’s dimmer star, 

Are there—o’er wave and mountain come, 
From counties near and far; 

Pilgrims, whose wandering feet have 
press’d 

The Switzer’s snow, the Arab’s sand, 

Or trod the piled leaves of the West, 

My own green forest-land. 

All ask the cottage of his birth, 

Gaze on the scenes he loved and sung, 
And gather feelings not of earth 
His fields and streams among. 

They linger by the Doon’s low trees, 

And pastoral Nith, and wooded Ayr, 
And round thy sepulchres, Dumfries! 

The Poet’s tomb is there. 

But what to them the sculptor’s art, 

His funeral columns, wreaths, and urns? 
Wear they not graven on the heart 
The name of Robert Burns ? 

Fitz-Greene IIalleck. 


The Grave of Bonaparte. 

On a lone barren isle, where the wild roar¬ 
ing billow, 

Assails the stern rock, and the loud 
tempest’s rave, 











PERSONAL POEMS. 


253 


The hero lies still, while the dew-dropping 
willow, 

Like fond weeping mourners leans over 
the grave. 

The lightnings may flash, and the loud 
thunders rattle, 

He heeds not, he hears not, he’s free 
from all pain ; 

He sleeps his last sleep, he has fought his 
last battle, 

No sound can awake him to glory again. 

Oh shade of the mighty, where now are 
the legions, 

That rushed but to conquer when thou 
ledst them on; 

Alas they have perished in far distant regions 
And all save the fame of their triumph 
is gone. 

The trumpet may sound and the loud can¬ 
non rattle, 

They heed not, they hear not, they’re 
free from all pain ; 

They sleep their last sleep, they have 
fought their last battle. 

No sound can awake them to glory again. 

Yet, spirit immortal, the tomb cannot bind 
thee, 

For like thine own eagle, that soared to 
the sun, 

Thou springest from bondage, and lea vest 
behind thee, 

A name which before thee no mortal had 
won. 

Though nations may combat, and war’s 
thunders rattle, 

No more on thy steed wilt thou sweep 
o’er the plain: 

Thou sleep’st thy last sleep, thou hast 
fought thy last battle, 

No sound can awake thee to glory again. 

Lyman Heath. 

Burial of Sir John Moore. 

Not a drum was heard, not a funeral note, 
As his corse to the rampart we hurried ; 

Not a soldier discharged his farewell shot 
O’er the grave where our hero we 
buried. 

We buried him darkly, at dead of night, 
The sods with our bayonets turning; 

By the struggling moonbeam’s misty light, 
And the lantern dimly burning. 


No useless coffin enclosed his breast, 

Not in sheet or in shroud we wound 
him; 

But he lay like a warrior taking his rest, 

With his martial cloak around him. 

Few and short were the prayers we said. 

And we spoke not a word of sorrow ; 

But we steadfastly gazed on the face that 
was dead, 

And we bitterly thought of the morrow. 

We thought as we hollow’d his narrow 
bed, 

And smooth’d down his lonely pillow. 

That the foe and the stranger would tread 
o'er his head, 

And we far away on the billow! 

Lightly they’ll talk of the spirit that’s 
gone, 

And o’er his cold ashes upbraid him ; 

But little he’ll reck, if they let him sleep on 

In the grave where a Briton has laid 
him. 

But half of our heavy task was done 

When the clock struck the hour for 
retiring; 

And we heard the distant and random gun 

That the foe was sullenly firing. 

Slowly and sadly we laid him down, 

From the field of his fame fresh and gory; 

We carved not a line, and we raised not a 
stone— 

But we left him alone with his glory. 

Charles Wolfe. 

Oh, Breathe not his Name. 

Robert Emmett. 

Oh, breathe not his name! let it sleep in 
the shade, 

Where cold and unhonor’d his relics are 
laid: 

Sad, silent, and dark be the tears that we 
shed, 

As the night-dew that falls on the grave 
o’er his head. 

But the night-dew that falls, though in 
silence it weeps, 

Shall brighten with verdure the grave 
where he sleeps; 







FIRESIDE ENCYCLOPAEDIA OF POETRY. 


:!'A 


And the tear that we shed, though in 
secret it rolls, 

Shall long keep his memory green in our 
souls. 

Thomas Moorf.. 


ox the Death of Joseph Rod¬ 
man Drake. 

Green be the turf above thee, 

Friend of my better days! 

None knew thee but to love thee, 

Nor named thee but to praise. 

Tears fell, when thou wert dying, 

From eyes unused to weep, 

And long, where thou art lying, 

Will tears the cold turf steep. 

When hearts, whose truth was proven, 
Like thine, are laid in earth, 

There should a wreath be w oven 
To tell the world their worth ; 

And I, who woke each morrow 
To clasp thy hand in mine, 

Who shared thy joy and sorrow', 

Whose weal and woe were thine,— 

It should be mine to braid it 
Around thy faded brow, 

But I’ve in vain essay’d it, 

And feel I cannot now 7 . 

While memory bids me weep thee, 

Nor thoughts nor words are free, 

The grief is fix’d too deeply 
That mourns a man like thee. 

Fitz-Gref.ne Halleck. 


Adonais. 

An Elegy on the Death of .John 
Keats. 

1 weep for Adonais—he is dead ! 

Oh, weep for Adonais! though our tears 
Thaw not the frost which binds so dear a 
head! 

And thou, sad Hour, selected from all 
years 

To mourn our loss, rouse thy obscure 


Forget the Past, his fate and fame shall 
be 

An echo and a light unto eternity!" 

Where wert thou, mighty mother, when he 
lay, 

When thy son lay, pierced bv the shaft 
which flies 

In darkness? where was lorn Urania 

When Adonais died? With veilfed eyes, 

’Mid listening echoes, in her paradise 

She sate, while one, with soft enamor’d 
breath, 

Rekindled all the fading melodies, 

With which, like flowers that mock the 
corse beneath, 

He had adorn’d and hid the coming bulk 
of death. 

Oh, w eej) for Adonais—he is dead ! 

Wake, melancholy mother, wake and 
weep! 

Yet w'herefore? Quench within their 
burning bed 

Thy fiery tears, and let thy loud heart 
keep, 

Like his, a mute and uncomplaining 
sleep; 

For he is gone, where all things w'ise and 
fair 

Descend :—oh, dream not that the amor¬ 
ous Deep 

Will yet restore him to the vital air; 

Death feeds on his mute voice, and laughs 
at our despair. 

Most musical of mourners, weep again! 

Lament anew, Urania!—He died, 

Who was the sire of an immortal strain. 

Blind, old, and lonely, when his coun¬ 
try’s pride 

The priest, the slave, and the liberticide, 

Trampled and mock’d with many a loathed 
rite 

Of lust and blood; he went, unterrified, 

Into the gulf of death; but his clear 
sprite 

Yet reigns o’er earth; the third among the 
sons of light. 


compeers, 

And teach them thine own sorrow: say, 
“ With me 

Died Adonais; till the Future dares 


Most musical of mourners, weep anew ! 
Not all to that bright station darel t<< 
climb; 












PERSONA L POEMS. 


255 


And happier they their happiness who 
knew, 

Whose tapers yet burn through that 
night of time 

In which stins perish’d; others more 
sublime, 

Struck by the envious wrath of man or 
God, 

Have sunk, extinct in their refulgent 
prime; 

And some yet live, treading the thorny 
road, 

Which leads, through toil and hate, to 
Fame’s serene abode. 

But now, thy youngest, dearest one, has 
perish’d, 

The nursling of thy widowhood, who 
grew 

Like a pale flower by some sad maiden 
cherish’d, 

And fed with true love tears instead of 
dew; 

Most musical of mourners, weep anew! 

Thy extreme hope, the loveliest and the 
last, 

The bloom, whose petals nipt before they 
blew 

Died on the promise of the fruit, is 
waste; 

The broken lily lies—the storm is over¬ 
past. 

To that high capital, where kingly Death 

Keeps his pale court in beauty and 
decay, 

He came; and bought, with iirice of 
purest breath, 

A grave among the eternal. — Come 
away! 

Haste, while the vault of blue Italian 
day 

Is yet his fitting charnel-roof! while 
still 

He lies, as if in dewy sleep he lay; 

Awake him not! surely he takes his fill 

Of deep and liquid rest, forgetful of all 
ill. 

He will awake no more, oh, never more! 

Within the twilight chamber spreads 
apace 


The shadow of white Death, and at the 
door 

Invisible Corruption waits to trace 

His extreme way to her dim dwelling- 
place ; 

The eternal Hunger sits, but pity and 
awe 

Soothe her pale rage, nor dares she to 
deface 

So fair a prey, till darkness and the law 

Of change, shall o’er his sleep the mortal 
curtain draw. 

Oh, weep for Adonais!—the quick Dreams, 

The passion-wingfed ministers of Thought, 

Who were his flocks, whom near the living- 
streams 

Of his young spirit he fed, and whom he 
taught 

The love which was its music, wander 
not— 

Wander no more, from kindling brain 
to brain, 

But droop there, whence they sprung; 
and mourn their lot 

Round the cold heart, where, after their 
sweet pain, 

They ne’er will gather strength, nor find 
a home again. 

And one with trembling hand clasps his 
cold head, 

And fans him with her moonlight wings, 
and cries, 

“ Our love, our hope, our sorrow, is not 
dead; 

See, on the silken fringe of his faint 
eyes, 

Like dew upon a sleeping flower, there 
lies 

A tear some Dream has loosen’d from his 
brain.” 

Lost angel of a ruin’d paradise ! 

She knew not ’twas her own; as with no 
stain 

She faded, like a cloud which had outwept 
its rain. 

One from a lucid urn of starry dew 

Wash’d his light limbs, as if embalm¬ 
ing them; 

Another dipt her profuse locks, and threw 

The wreath upon him, like an anadem. 




FIRESIDE ENCYCLOPAEDIA OF POETRY 


Which frozen tears instead of pearls 
begem ; 

Another in her wilful grief would break 

Her bow and winged reeds, as if to 
stem 

A greater loss with one which was more 
weak; 

And dull the barbed lire against his frozen 
cheek. 

Another Splendor on his mouth m lit. 

That mouth whence it was wont to draw 
the breath 

Which gave it strength to pierce the I 
guarded wit, 

And pass into the panting heart be¬ 
neath 

With lightning and with music: the 
damp death 

Quench’d its caress upon its icy lips ; 

And as a dying meteor stains a wreath 

Of moonlight vapor, which the cold night 
clips, 

It flush’d through his pale limbs, and 
pass’d to its eclipse. 

And others came,—Desires and Adora¬ 
tions, 

Winged Persuasions, and veil’d Desti¬ 
nies, 

Splendors, and Glooms, and glimmering 
Incarnations 

Of hopes and fears, and twilight Phan¬ 
tasies ; 

And Sorrow, with her family of Sighs, 

And Pleasure, blind with tears, led by the 
gleam 

Of her own dying smile instead of eyes, 

Came in slow pomp;—the moving pomp 
might seem 

Like pageantry of mist on an autumnal 
stream. 

All lie had loved, and moulded into 
thought 

From shape, and hue, and odor, and 
sweet sound, 

Lamented Adonais. Morning sought 

Her eastern watch-tower, and her hair 
unbound, 

Wet with the tears which should adorn 
the ground, 


Dimm’d the aerial eyes that kindle day ; 

Afar the melancholy Thunder moan’d, 

Pale Ocean in unquiet slumber lay, 

And the wild Winds flew around, sobbing 
in their dismay. 

Lost Echo sits amid tlie voiceless inountains. 

And feeds her grief with his remember’d 
lay, 

And will no more reply to winds or foun¬ 
tains, 

Or amorous birds perch’d on the young 
green spray, 

Or herdsman’s horn, orbell atclosingdav, 

Since she can mimic not his lips, more dear 

Than those for whose disdain they pined 
away 

Into a shadow of all sounds :—a drear 

Murmur, between their songs, is all the 
woodmen hear. 

Grief made the young Spring wild, and she 
threw down 

Her kindling buds, as if she Autumn 
were, 

! Or they dead leaves; since her delight in 
flown, 

For whom should she have waked the 
sullen year? 

To Phoebus was not Hyacinth so dear, 

Nor to himself Narcissus, as to both 

Thou, Adonais: wan they stand and sere 

Amid the faint companions of their 
youth, 

With dew all turn’d to tears; odor, to 
sighing ruth. 

Thy spirit’s sister, the lorn nightingale, 

Mourns not her mate with such melo¬ 
dious pain ; 

Not so the eagle, who like thee could scale 

Heaven, and could nourish in the sun’s 
domain 

Her mighty youth with morning, doth 
complain, 

Soaring and screaming round her empty 
nest, 

As Albion wails for thee: the curse of 
Cain 

Light on his head who pierced thy inno 
cent breast, 

And scared the angel soul that was its 
earthly guest! 












PERSONAL POEMS. 


Ah, woe is me ! Winter is come and gone, 

But grief returns with the revolving 
year; 

The airs and streams renew their joyous 
tone; 

The ants, the bees, the swallows reappear; 

Fresh leaves and flowers deck the dead 
Seasons’ bier; 

The amorous birds now pair in every brake, 

And build their mossy homes in field 
and brere: 

And the green lizard, and the golden snake, 

Like unimprison’d flames, out of their 
trance awake. 

Through wood, and stream, and field, and 
hill and ocean, 

A quickening life from the Earth’s heart 
has burst, 

As it has ever done, with change and 
motion, 

From the great morning of the world 
when first 

God dawn’d on Chaos; in its stream 
immersed, 

The lamps of Heaven flash with a softer 
light; 

All baser things pant with life’s sacred 
thirst; 

Diffuse themselves; and spend in love’s 
delight, 

The beauty and the jov of their renewed 
might. 

The leprous corpse, touch’d by this spirit 
tender, 

Exhales itself in flowers of gentle breath; 

Like incarnations of the stars, when splen¬ 
dor 

Is changed to fragrance, they illumine 
death, 

And mock the merry worm that wakes 
beneath; 

Naught we know dies. Shall that alone 
which knows 

Be as a sword consumed before the sheath 

By sightless lightning? th’ intense atom 
glows 

A moment, then is quench’d in a most 
cold repose. 

Alas! that all we loved of him should be, 

But for our grief, as if it had not been, 
17 


And grief itself be mortal! Woe is me! 

Whence are we, and why are we? of 
what scene 

The actors or spectators? Great and 
mean 

Meet mass’d in death, who lends what life 
must borrow. 

As long as skies are blue, and fields are 
green, 

Evening must usher night, night urge the 
morrow, 

Month follow month with woe, and year 
wake year to sorrow. 

He will awake no more, oh, never more! 

“ Wake thou !” cried Misery, “ childless 
mother, rise 

Out of thy sleep, and slake, in thy heart’s 
core, 

A wound more fierce than his tears and 
sighs.” 

And all the Dreams that watch’d Ura¬ 
nia’s eyes, 

And all the Echoes whom their sister’s 
song 

Had held in holy silence, cried “Arise!” 

Swift as a Thought by the snake Memory 
stung, 

From her ambrosial rest the fading Splen¬ 
dor sprung. 

She rose like an autumnal Night, that 
springs 

Out of the East, and follows wild and 
drear 

The golden Day, which, on eternal wings, 

Even as a ghost abandoning a bier, 

Has left the Earth a corpse. Sorrow 
and fear 

So struck, so roused, so rapt, Urania, 

So sadden’d round her like an atmo¬ 
sphere 

Of stormy mist; so swept her on her 
way, 

Even to the mournful place where Ado- 
nais lay. 

Out of her secret paradise she sped, 

Through camps and cities rough with 
stone, and steel, 

And human hearts, which to her aery 
tread 

Yielding not, wounded the invisible 









FIRESIDE ENCYCLOPAEDIA OF POETRY. 


258 


Palms of her tender feet where’er they ] 
fell: 

And barbed tongues, ajid thoughts more 1 
sharp than they, 

Rent the soft Form they never could repel, 

Whose sacred blood, like the young tears 
of May, 

Paved with eternal flowers that unde- ! 
serving way. 

In the death-chamber for a moment Death, 

Shamed by the presence of that living 
Might, 

Blush’d to annihilation, and the breath 

Revisited those lips, and life’s pale light 

Flash’d through those limbs, so late her 
dear delight. 

“ Leave me not wild and drear and com¬ 
fortless, 

As silent lightning leaves the starless J 
night! 

Leave me not 1” cried Urania : her distress 

Roused Death: Death rose and smiled, 
and met her vain caress. 

“Stay yet a while! speak to me once again; 

Kiss me, so long but as a kiss may live ; 

And in my heartless breast and burning 
brain 

That word, that kiss, shall all thoughts 
else survive, 

"With food of saddest memory kept alive, I 

Now thou art dead, as if it were a part 

Of thee, my Adonais ! I would give 

All that I am to be as thou now art! 

But I am chain’d to Time, and cannot 
thence depart! 

“ O gentle child, beautiful as thou wert, 

Why didst thou leave the trodden paths 
of men 

Too soon,, and with weak hands though 
mighty heart 

Dare the unpastured dragon in his den ? 

Defenceless as thou wert, oh ! where was 
then 

Wisdom the mirror’d shield, or scorn the 
spear ? 

Or hadst thou waited the full cycle, when 

Thy spirit should have fill’d its crescent 
sphere, 

The monsters of life’s waste had fled from 
thee like deer. 


“The herded wolves, bold only to pur¬ 
sue ; 

The obscene ravens, clamorous o’er the 
dead; 

The vultures, to the conqueror’s banner 
true, 

Who feed where Desolation first has 
fed, 

And whose wings rain contagion ;—how 
they fled, 

When, like Apollo, from his golden bow. 

The Pythian of the age one arrow' sped 

And smiled !—The spoilers tempt no sec¬ 
ond blow', 

They fawn on the proud feet that spurn 
them lying low'. 

“ The sun comes forth, and many reptiles 
spawn ; 

He sets, and each ephemeral insect then 

Is gather’d into death without a dawn, 

And the immortal stars aw'ake again ; 

So it is in the world of living men: 

A godlike mind soars forth, in its delight 

Making earth bare and veiling heaven, 
and when 

It sinks, the swarms that dimm’d or shared 
its light 

Leave to its kindred lamps the spirit’s aw¬ 
ful night.” 

Thus ceased she : and the mountain-shep¬ 
herds came, 

Their garlands sere, their magic mantles 
rent; 

The Pilgrim of Eternity, whose fame 

Over his living head like Heaven is 
bent, 

An early but enduring monument, 

Came, veiling all the lightnings of his 
song 

In sorrow; from her wilds Ierne sent 

The sweetest lyrist of her saddest w'rong, 

And love taught grief to fall like music 
from his tongue. 

’Midst others of less note came one frail 
Form, 

A phantom among men ; companionless 

As the last cloud of an expiring storm, 

"Whose thunder is its knell: he as 1 
guess, 

Had gazed on Nature’s naked lovelinea. 







PERSONAL POEMS. 


Actseon-like, and now lie fled astray 
With feeble steps o’er the world’s wil¬ 
derness, 

And his own thoughts, along that rugged 
way, 

Pursued, like raging hounds, their father 
and their prey. 

A pard-like Spirit beautiful and swift— 

A Love in desolation mask’d ;—a power 

Girt round with weakness;—it can scarce 
uplift 

The weight of the superincumbent hour; 
It is a dying lamp, a falling shower, 

A breaking billow ;—even whilst we speak 
Is it not broken? On the withering 
flower 

The killing sun smiles brightly: on a 
cheek 

The life can burn in blood, even while the 
heart may break. 

His head was bound with pansies over¬ 
blown, 

And faded violets, white, and pied, and 
blue; 

And a light spear topp’d with a cypress 
cone, 

Round whose rude shaft dark ivy-tresses 
grew, 

Yet dripping with the forest’s noonday 
dew, 

Vibrated, as the ever-beating heart 

Shook the weak hand that grasp’d it; of 
that crew 

He came the last, neglected and apart; 

A herd-abandon’d deer, struck by the 
hunter’s dart. 

A’l stood aloof, and at his partial moan 
Smiled through their tears; well knew 
that gentle band 

Who in another’s fate now wept his own ; 
As in the accents of an unknown land 
He sang new sorrow; sad Urania scann’d' 

The Stranger’s mien, and murmur’d: 
“Who art thou?” 

He answer’d not, but with a sudden hand 

Made bare his branded and ensanguined 
brow, 

Which was like Cain’s or Christ’s.—Oh! 
that it should be so I - 


What softer voice is hushfed over the dead? 

Athwart what brow is that dark mantle 
thrown? 

What form leans sadly o’er the white 
deathbed, 

In mockery of monumental stone, 

The heavy heart heaving without a 
moan ? 

If it be he, who, gentlest of the wise, 

Taught, soothed, loved, honor’d the de¬ 
parted one; 

Let me not vex, with inharmonious sighs, 

The silence of that heart’s accepted sac¬ 
rifice. 

Our Adonais has drunk poisgn—oh! 

What deaf and viperous murderer could 
crown 

Life’s early cup with such a draught of 
woe? 

The nameless worm would now itself 
disown : 

It felt, yet could escape the magic tone 

Whose prelude held all envy, hate, and 
wrong, 

But what was howling in one breast 
alone, 

Silent with the expectation of the song, 

Whose master’s hand is cold, whose silver 
lyre unstrung. 

Live thou, whose infamy is not thy fame! 

Live! fear no heavier chastisement from 
me, 

Thou noteless blot on a remember’d 
name! 

But be thyself, and know thyself to be! 

And ever at thy season be thou free 

To spill the venom when thy fangs o’er- 
flow: 

Remorse and self-contempt shall cling to 
thee; 

Hot shame shall burn upon thy secret brow f 

And like a beaten hound tremble thou 
shalt—as now. 

Nor let us weep that our delight is fled 

Far from these carrion-kites that scream 
below; 

lie wakes or sleeps with the enduring 
dead: 

Thou canst not soar where he is sitting 
now. 









2(30 


FIRESIDE ENCYCLOPAEDIA OF POETRY. 


Dust to the dust! but the pure spirit shall 
flow 

Back to the burning fountain whence it 
came, 

A portion of the Eternal, which must glow T 

Through time and change, unquenchably 
the same, 

Whilst thy cold embers choke the sordid 
hearth of shame. 

Peace, peace! he is not dead, he doth not 
sleep— 

He hath awaken’d from the dream of 
life— 

’Tis we, who, lost in stormy visions, keep 

With phantoms an unprofitable strife, 

And in mad trance strike with our 
spirit’s knife 

Invulnerable nothings.— We decay 

Like corpses in a charnel; fear and grief 

Convulse us and consume us day by day, 

And cold hopes swarm like worms with¬ 
in our living clay. 

He has outsoar’d the shadow of our night; 

Envy and calumny, and hate and pain, 

And that unrest which men miscall delight, 

Can touch him not and torture not again ; 

From the contagion of the world’s slow 
stain 

He is secure, and now can never mourn 

A heart grown cold, a head grown gray 
in vain; 

Nor, when the spirit’s self has ceased to 
burn, 

With sparkless ashes load an uulamented 
urn. 

He lives, he wakes—’tis Death is dead, not 
he; 

Mourn not for Adonais—Thou young 
Dawn, 

Turn all thy dew to splendor, for from 
thee 

The spirit thou lamentest is not gone; 

Ye caverns and ye forests, cease to moan! 

Cease, ye faint flowers and fountains, and 
thou Air, 

Which like a morning veil thy scarf 
hadst thrown 

O’er the abandoned Earth, now leave it bare 

Even to the joyous stars which smile on 
its despair! 


He is made one with Nature: there is 
heard 

His' voice in all her music, from the 
moan 

Of thunder, to the song of night’s sweet 
bird; 

He is a presence to be felt and known 

In darkness and in light, from herb and 
stone, 

Spreading itself where’er that Power may 
move 

Which has withdrawn his being to its 
own; 

Which wields the world with never- 
wearied love, 

Sustains it from beneath, and kindles it 
above. 

He is a portion of the loveliness 

Which once he made more lovely: he 
doth bear 

His part, while the one Spirit’s plastic 
stress 

Sweeps through the dull dense world, 
compelling there 

All new successions to the forms they wear 

Torturing th’ unwilling dross that checks 
its flight 

To its own likeness, as each mass may 
bear; 

And bursting in its beauty and its might 

From trees and beasts and men into the 
Heavens’ light. 

The splendors of the firmament of time 

May be eclipsed, but are extinguish’d 
not: 

Like stars to their appointed height they 
climb, 

And death is a low mist which cannot 
blot 

The brightness it may veil. When lofty 
thought 

Lifts a young heart above its mortal lair, 

And love and life contend in it, for what 

Shall be its earthly doom, the dead live 
there, 

And move like winds of light on dark 
and stormy air. 

The inheritors of unfulfill’d renown 

Rose from their thrones, built beyond 
mortal thought, 





DANTE MEETS BEATRICE 

















STATUE OF HENRY CLAY, RICHMOND 

“ He lives, he towers aloft, he stands sublime .”—Page 2 jo, 







PERSONAL POEMS. 


261 


Far in the unapparent. Chatterton 
Rose pale, his solemn agony had not 
Yet faded from him; Sidney, as he 
fought, 

And as he fell, and as he lived and 
loved, 

Sublimely mild, a Spirit without spot, 

Arose; and Lucan, by his death ap¬ 
proved : 

Oblivion as they rose shrank like a thing 
reproved. 

And many more, whose names on earth 
are dark, 

But whose transmitted effluence cannot 
die 

So long as fire outlives the parent spark, 
Rose, robed in dazzling immortality. 

“ Thou art become as one of us,” they 
cry; 

“It was for thee yon kingless sphere has 
long 

Swung blind in unascended majesty, 

Silent alone amid a heaven of song. 

Assumed thy winged throne, thou Vesper 
of our throng!” 

Who mourns for Adonais? oh come forth, 
Fond wretch! and know thyself and 
him aright. 

Clasp with thy panting soul the pendulous 
Earth; 

As from a centre, dart thy spirit’s light 
Beyond all worlds, until its spacious 
might 

Satiate the void circumference; then shrink 
Even to a point within our day and 
night; 

And keep thy heart light, lest it make thee 
sink 

When hope has kindled hope, and lured 
thee to the brink. 

Or go to Rome, which is the sepulchre, 

Oh, not of him, but of our joy: ’tis 
naught 

That ages, empires, and religions there 
Lie buried in the ravage they have 
wrought; 

For such as he can lend,—they borrow not 

Glory from those who made the world their 
prey; 

And he is gather’d to the kings of thought 


Who waged contention with their time’s 
decay, 

And of the past are all that cannot pass 
away. 

Go thou to Rome—at once the paradise, 

The grave, the city, and the wilderness; 

And where its wrecks like shatter’d moun¬ 
tains rise, 

And flowering weeds and fragrant copses 
dress 

The bones of Desolation’s nakedness, 

Pass, till the Spirit of the spot shall lead 

Thy footsteps to a slope of green access, 

Where, like an infant’s smile, over the dead 

A light of laughing flowers along the grass 
is spread, 

And gray walls moulder round, on which 
dull Time 

Feeds, like slow fire upon a hoary brand; 

And one keen pyramid with wedge sub¬ 
lime, 

Pavilioning the dust of him who plann’d 

This refuge for his memory, doth stand 

Like flame transform’d to marble: and 
beneath 

A field is spread, on which a newer band 

Have pitch’d in Heaven’s smile their camp 
of death, 

Welcoming him we lose with scarce ex¬ 
tinguish’d breath. 

Here pause : these graves are all too young 
as yet 

To have outgrown the sorrow which con¬ 
sign’d 

Its charge to each; and if the seal is set, 

Here, on one fountain of a mourning 
mind, 

Break it not thou ! too surely shalt thou 
find 

Thine own well full, if thou returnest 
home, 

Of tears and gall. From the world’s 
bitter wind 

Seek shelter in the shadow of the tomb. 

What Adonais is, why fear we to become? 

The One remains, the many change and 
pass: 

Heaven’s light for ever shines, Earth’s 
shadows fly; 







2G2 


FIRESIDE ENCYCLOPAEDIA OF POETRY. 


Life, like a dome of many-color’d glass, 

Stains the white radiance of Eternity, 

Until death tramples it to fragments.— 
Die, 

If thou wouldst be with that which thou 
dost seek ! 

Follow where all is fled !—Rome’s azure 

sky, 

Flowers, ruins, statues, music, words are 
weak 

The glory they transfuse with fitting truth 
to speak. 

Why linger, why turn back, why shrink, 
my Heart? 

Thy hopes are gone before: from all 
things here 

They have departed; thou shouldst now 
depart! 

A light is past from the revolving year, 

And man, and woman; and what still is 
dear 

Attracts to crush, repels to make thee 
wither. 

The soft sky smiles,—the low wind 
whispers near: 

’Tis Adonais calls ! oh, hasten thither, 

No more let Life divide what Death can 
join together. 

That light whose smile kindles the Uni¬ 
verse, 

That Beauty in which all things work 
and move, 

That Benediction which the eclipsing 
Curse 

Of birth can quench not, that sustain¬ 
ing Love 

Which through the web of being blindly 
wove 

By man and beast, and earth, and air, and 
sea, 

Burns bright or dim, as each are mirrors 
of 

The fire for which all thirst, now beams 
on me, 

Consuming the last clouds of cold mor¬ 
tality. 

The breath wftose might I have invoked in 

song 

Descends on me; my spirit’s bark is 
driven 


Far from the shore, far from the trembling 
throng 

Whose sails were never to the tempest 
given, 

The massy earth and sphered skies are 
riven! 

I am borne darkly, fearfully afar; 

Whilst burning through the inmost veil 
of Heaven, 

The soul of Adonais, like a star, 

Beacons from the abode where the eternal 
are. 

Percy Bysshe Shelley. 

Stanzas written in Dejection 
near Naples. 

The sun is warm, the sky is clear, 

The waves are dancing fast and bright, 
Blue isles and snowy mountains wear 
The purple noon’s transparent light: 

The breath of the moist air is light 
Around its unexpanded buds; 

Like many a voice of one delight, 

The winds, the birds, the ocean-floods, 

The City’s voice itself is soft like Soli¬ 
tude’s. 

I see the Deep’s untrampled floor 
With green and purple sea-weeds strown; 
I see the waves upon the shore 

Like light dissolved in star-showers 
thrown: 

T sit upon the sands alone, 

The lightning of the noon-tide ocean 
Is flashing round me, and a tone 
Arises from its measured motion, 

How sweet! did any heart now share in 
my emotion. 

Alas! I have nor hope nor health, 

Nor peace within nor calm around, 

Nor that content surpassing wealth 
The sage in meditation found, 

And walk’d with inward glory crown’d— 
Nor fame, nor power, nor love, nor leisure; 

Others I see whom these surround— 
Smiling they live, and call life pleasure; 
To me that cup has been dealt in another 
measure. 

Yet now despair itself is mild 

Even as the winds and waters are; 







PERSONAL POEMS. 


2(53 


I could lie down like a tired child, 

And weep away the life of care 
Which I have borne, and yet must bear, 
Till death like sleep might steal on me, 
And I might feel in the warm air 
My cheek grow cold, and hear the sea 
Breathe o’er my dying brain its last mo¬ 
notony. 

Some might lament that I were cold, 

As I, when this sweet day is gone, 
Which my lost heart, too soon grown old, 
Insults with this untimely moan; 

They might lament—for I am one 
Whom men love not,—and yet regret, 
Unlike this day, which, when the sun 
Shall on its stainless glory set, 

Will linger, though enjoy’d, like joy in 
memory yet. 

Percy Bysshe Shelley. 

V 

Randolph of Roanoke. 

O Mother Earth ! upon thy lap 
Thy weary ones receiving, 

And o’er them, silent as a dream, 

Thy grassy mantle weaving, 

Fold softly in thy long embrace 
That heart so worn and broken, 

And cool its pulse of fire beneath 
Thy shadows old and oaken. 

Shut out from him the bitter word 
And serpent hiss of scorning; 

Nor let the storms of yesterday 
Disturb his quiet morning. 

Breathe over him forgetfulness 
Of all save deeds of kindness, 

And, save to smiles of grateful eyes, 
Press down his lids in blindness. 

There, where with living ear and eye 
He heard Potomac’s flowing, 

And, through his tall ancestral trees, 
Saw autumn’s sunset glowing, 

He sleeps,—still looking to the west, 
Beneath the dark wood shadow, 

As if he still would see the sun 
Sink down on wave and meadow. 

Bard, Sage, and Tribune!—in himself 
All moods of mind contrasting,— 

The tenderest wail of human woe, 

The scorn-like lightning blasting; 


The pathos which from rival eyes 
Unwilling tears could summon, 

The stinging taunt, the fiery burst 
Of hatred scarcely human ! 

Mirth, sparkling like a diamond shower, 
From lips of lifelong sadness; 

Clear picturings of majestic thought 
Upon a ground of madness; 

And over all romance and song 
A classic beauty throwing, 

And laurell’d Clio at his side 
Her storied pages showing. 

All parties fear’d him : each in turn 
Beheld its schemes disjointed, 

As right or left his fatal glance 
And spectral finger pointed. 

Sworn foe of Cant, he smote it down 
With trenchant wit unsparing, 

And, mocking, rent with ruthless hand 
The robe Pretence was wearing. 

Too honest or too proud to feign 
A love, he never cherish’d, 

Beyond Virginia’s border-line 
His patriotism perish’d. 

While others hail’d in distant skies 
Our eagle’s dusky pinion, 

He only saw the mountain bird 
Stoop o’er his Old Dominion! 

Still through each change of fortune 
strange, 

Rack’d nerve, and brain all burning, 

His loving faith in motherland 
Knew never shade of turning; 

By Britain’s lakes, by Neva’s wave, 
Whatever sky was o’er him, 

He heard her rivers’ rushing sound, 

Her blue peaks rose before him. 

He held his slaves, yet made withal 
No false and vain pretences, 

Nor paid a lying priest to seek 
For scriptural defences. 

His harshest words of proud rebuke, 

His bitterest taunt and scorning, 

Fell fire-like on the Northern brow 
That bent to him in fawning. 

He held his slaves: yet kept the while 
His reverence for the human: 







r 


FIRESIDE ENCYCLOPAEDIA OF POETRY. 


264 


In the dark vassals of his will 
He saw but man and woman! 

No hunter of God’s outraged poor 
His Roanoke valley enter’d; 

No trader in the souls of men 
Across his threshold ventured. 

And when the old and wearied man 
Lay down for his last sleeping, 

And at his side, a slave no more, 

His brother-man stood weeping, 

His latest thought, his latest breath, 

To freedom’s duty giving, 

With failing tongue and trembling hand 
The dying blest the living. 

Oh, never bore his ancient State 
A truer son or braver! 

None trampling with a calmer scorn 
On foreign hate or favor. 

He knew her faults, yet never stoop’d 
His proud and manly feeling 
To poor excuses of the wrong 
Or meanness of concealing. 

But none beheld with clearer eye 
The plague-spot o’er her spreading, 
None heard more sure the steps of Doom 
Along her future treading. 

For her as for himself he spake, 

When, his gaunt frame upbracing, 

He traced with dying hand “Remorse!” 
And perish’d in the tracing. 

As from the grave where Henry sleeps, 
From Vernon’s weeping willow, 

And from the grassy pall which hides 
The sage of Monticello, 

So from the leaf-strewn burial-stone 
Of Randolph’s lowly dwelling, 

Virginia! o’er thy land of slaves 
A warning voice is swelling ! 

And hark ! from thv deserted fields 
Are sadder warnings spoken, 

From quench’d hearths, where thy exiled 
sons 

Their household gods have broken. 

The curse is on thee,—wolves for men, 
And briers for corn-sheaves giving! 

Oh more than all thy dead renown 
Were now one hero living! 

John Greenleaf Whittier. 


The Lost Leader. 

Just for a handful of silver he left us ; 

Just for a ribbon to stick in his coat— 

Found the one gift of which fortune bereft 
us, 

Lost all the others she lets us devote. 

They, with the gold to give, doled him 
out silver, 

So much was their’s who so little allow’d. 

How all our copper had gone for his ser¬ 
vice ! 

Rags—were they purple, his heart had 
been proud! 

We that had loved him so, follow’d him, 
honor’d him, 

Lived in his mild and magnificent eye, 

Learn’d his great language, caught his 
clear accents, 

Made him our pattern to live and to 
die! 

Shakespeare was of us, Milton was for 
us, 

Burns, Shelley, were with us—they watch 
from their graves! 

He alone breaks from the van and the 
freemen ; 

He alone sinks to the rear and the 
slaves! 

We shall march prospering—not through 
his presence; 

Songs may inspirit us—not from his 
lyre; 

Deeds will be done—while he boasts his 
quiescence, 

Still bidding crouch whom the rest bade 
aspire. 

Blot out his name, then—record one lost 
soul more, 

One task more declined, one more foot¬ 
path untrod, 

One more triumph for devils, and sorrow 
for angels, 

One wrong more to man, one more insult 
to God! 

Life’s night begins: let him never come 
back to us! 

There would be doubt, hesitation, and 
pain, 

Forced praise on our part—the glimmer 
of twilight, 

Never glad, confident morning again ! 






PERSONAL POEMS. 


265 


Best fight on well, for we taught him— 
strike gallantly, 

Aim at our heart ere we pierce through 
his own ; 

Then let him receive the new knowledge 
and wait us, 

Pardon'd in heaven, the first by the 
throne! 

Robekt Browning. 


Charade. 

Camp-Bell. 

Come from my first, ay, come! 

The battle-dawn is nigh; 

And the screaming trump and the thunder¬ 
ing drum 

Are calling thee to die ! 

Fight as thy father fought; 

Fall as thy father fell; 

Thy task is taught ; thy shroud is 
wrought; 

So forward and farewell! 

Toll ye my second ! toll! 

Fling high the flambeau’s light, 

And sing the hymn for a parted soul 
Beneath the silent night! 

The helm upon his head, 

The cross upon his breast; 

Let the prayer be said and the tear be 
shed; 

Now take him to his rest! 

Call ye my whole,—go, call 
The lord of lute and lay ; 

And let him greet the sable pall 
With a noble song to-day. 

Ay, call him by his name ; 

No fitter hand may crave 
To light the flame of a soldier’s fame 
On the turf of a soldier’s grave ! 

WlNTHROP Mack WORTH Praed. 


Dryburgh Abbey. 

And Scott—that Ocean ’mid the stream of men ! 
That Alp, amidst all mental greatness reared !— 

’Twas morn—but not the ray which falls 
the summer boughs among, 

When Beauty walks in gladness forth, with 
all her light and song ; 


| ’Twas morn—but mist and cloud hung 
deep upon the lonely vale, 

And shadows, like the wings of death, 
were out upon the gale. 

For He whose spirit woke the dust of 
nations into life— 

That o’er the waste and barren earth spread 
flowers and fruitage rife— 

Whose genius, like the sun, illumed the 
mighty realms of mind— 

Had fled for ever from the fame, love, 
friendship of mankind! 

To wear a wreath in glory wrought his 
spirit swept afar, 

Beyond the soaring wing of thought, the 
light of moon or star ; 

To drink immortal waters, free from every 
taint of earth— 

To breathe before the shrine of life, the 
source whence worlds had birth ! 

There was wailing on the early breeze, and 
darkness in the sky, 

When with sable plume, and cloak, and 
pall, a funeral train swept by ; 

Methought-—St. Mary shield us well!— 
that other forms moved there 

Than those of mortal brotherhood, the 
noble, young, and fair ! 

Was it a dream ? how oft, in sleep, we ask, 
“ Can this be true ?” 

Whilst warm Imagination paints her mar¬ 
vels to our view ;— 

Earth’s glory seems a tarnish’d crown to 
that which we behold, 

When dreams enchant our sight with 
things whose meanest garb is gold ! 

Was it a dream?—Methought the daunt¬ 
less Harold pass’d me by— 

The proud Fitz-James, with martial step, 
and dark intrepid eye; 

That Marmion’s haughty crest was there, 
a mourner for his sake ; 

And she,—the bold, the beautiful!—sweet 
Lady of the Lake. 

' The Minstrel whose last lay was o’er, whose 
broken harp lay low, 

! And with him glorious Waverley, with 
glance and step of woe ; 







FIRESIDE' ENCYCLOPAEDIA OF POETRY. 


-336 


And Stuart’s voice rose there, as when, 
’mid fate’s disastrous war, 

He led the wild, ambitious, proud, and 
brave Yich Ian Yohr. 

Next, marvelling at his sable suit, the 
Dominie stalk’d past, 

With Bertram, Julia by his side, whose 
tears were flowing fast; 

Guy Mannering, too, moved there, o’er- 
power’d by that afflicting sight; 

And Merrilies, as when she wept on 
Ellangowan’s height. 

Solemn and grave, Monkbarns appear’d, 
amidst that burial line ; 

And Ochiltree leant o’er his staff, and 
mourn’d for “Auld lang syne!” 

Slow- march’d the gallant McIntyre, whilst 
Lovel mused alone; 

For once, Miss Wardour’s image left that 
bosom’s faithful throne. 

With coronach, and arms reversed, forth 
came MacGregor’s clan— 

Bed Dougal’s cry peal’d shrill and w-ild— 
Bob Boy’s bold brow- look’d wan: 

The fair Diana kiss’d her cross, and bless’d 
its sainted ray; 

And “ Wae is me!” the Baillie sigh’d, 
“ that I should see this day !” 

Next rode, in melancholy guise, w-ith som¬ 
bre vest and scarf, 

Sir Edward, Laird of Ellieslaw, the far-re- 
nown’d Black Dwarf; 

Upon his left, in bonnet blue, and white 
locks flowing free— 

The pious sculptor of the grave—stood 
Old Mortality! 

Balfour of Burley, Claverliouse, the Lord 
of Evandale, 

And stately Lady Margaret, whose woe 
might naught avail! 

Fierce Bothwell on his charger black, as 
from the conflict w-on ; 

And pale Habakkuk Mucklewrath, who 
cried “ God’s will be done !” 

And like a rose, a young w-hite rose, that 
blooms ’mid w-ildest scenes, 

Pass’d she,—the modest, eloquent, and 
virtuous Jeanie Deans; 


And Dumbiedikes, that silent laird, with 
love too deep to smile, 

And Effie, with her noble friend, the good 
Duke of Argvle. 

With lofty brow, and bearing high, dark 
Bavenswood advanced, 

Who on the false Lord Keeper’s mjpn with 
eye indignant glanced :— 

Whilst graceful as a lonely fawn, ’neath 
covert close and sure, 

Approach’d the beauty of all hearts—the 
Bride of Lammermoor! 

Then Annot Lyle, the fairy queen of light 
and song, stepp’d near, 
i The Knight of Ardenvohr, and he, the 
gifted Hieland Seer; 

Dalgetty, Duncan, Lord Menteith, and Ban- 
aid met my view; 

The hapless Children of the Mist, and bold 
Mhichconnel Dhu! 

On sw-ept Bois-Guilbert—Front de Bceuf 
—De Bracy’s plume of woe ; 

And Cceur de Lion’s crest shone near the 
valiant Ivanhoe; 

; While soft as glides a summer cloud 
Bowen a closer drew, 

With beautiful Bebecca, peerless daughter 
of the Jew-! 

I saw- the courtly Euphuist, w-ith Halbert 
of the Dell, 

And, like a ray of moonlight, pass’d the 
White Maid of Avenel; 

Lord Morton, Douglas, Bolton, and the 
Boval Earl march’d there, 

To the slow- and solemn funeral chant of 
the monks of Kennaquliair. 

And she, on whose imperial brow- a god 
had set his seal, 

The glory of whose loveliness grief might 
not all conceal ; 

The loved in high and princely halls, in 
lone and lowly cots, 

Stood Mary, the illustrious, yet helpless 
Queen of Scots. 

; The firm, devoted Catherine, the senti¬ 
mental Graeme, 

Lochleven, whose worn brow- reveal’d an 
early-blighted name, 







fhJKISUm A L FUKMb'. 


20 f 


The enthusiastic Magdalen, the pilgrim of 
that shrine, 

Whose spirit triumphs o’er the tomb and 
makes its dust divine. 

With Leicester, Lord of Kenilworth, in 
mournful robes, was seen 

The gifted, great Elizabeth, high Eng¬ 
land’s matchless queen. 

Tressilian’s wild and manly glance, and 
Varney’s darker gaze, 

Sought Amy Robsart’s brilliant form, too 
fair for earthly praise. 

Next Norna of the Fitful-head, the wild 
Reim-kennar, came, 

But shiver’d lay her magic wand, and dim 
her eye of flame ; 

Young Minna Troil the lofty-soul’d, whom 
Cleveland’s love betray’d, 

The generous old Udaller, and Mordaunt’s 
sweet island maid. 

Slow follow’d Lord Glenvarloch, first of 
Scotia’s gallant names, 

With the fair, romantic Margaret, and the 
erudite King James; 

The woo’d and wrong’d Hermione, whose 
lord all hearts despise, 

Sarcastic Malagrowtlier, and the faithful 
Moniplies. 

Then stout Sir Geoffrey of the Peak, and 
Peveril swept near; 

Stern Bridgenorth, and the fiery Duke, 
with knight and cavalier ; 

The fairest of fantastic elves, Fenella, 
glided on, 

And Alice, from whose beauteous lip the 
light of joy was gone. 

And Quentin’s haughty helm flash’d there; 
Le Balafre’s stout lance; 

Orleans, Crevecoeur, the brave Dunois, the 
noblest knight of France; 

The wild Ilavraddin, follow’d by the silent 
Jean de Troyes, 

The mournful Lady Hameline, and Isa¬ 
belle de Croyes. 

Pale sorrow mark’d young Tyrrell’s mien, 
grief dimm’d sweet Clara’s eye, 

And Ronan’s laird breathed many a prayer 
for days and friends gone by; 


Oh, mourn not, pious Cargill cried; should 
his death woe impart, 

Whose cenotaph’s the universe, whose 
elegy’s the heart! 

Forth bore the noble Fairford his fascina¬ 
ting bride, 

The lovely Lilias, with the brave Red- 
gauntlet by her side; 

Black Campbell, and the bold redoubted 
Maxwell met my view, 

And Wandering Willie’s solemn wreath 
of dark funereal yew. 

As foes who meet upon some wild, some 
fir and foreign shore, 

Wreck’d by the same tempestuous surge, 
recall past feuds no more, 

I Thus prince and peasant, peer and slave, 
thus friend and foe combine, 

To pour the homage of their heart upon 
one common shrine. 

There Lacey, famed Cadwallon, and the 
fierce Gwenwyn march’d on, 

Whilst horn and halbert, pike and bow, 
dart, glaive, and javelin shone; 

Sir Damian and the elegant young Eveline 
pass’d there, 

Stout Wilkin, and the hopeless Rose, with 
wild, dishevell’d hair. 

Around, in solemn grandeur, swept the 
banners of the brave, 

And deep and far the clarions waked the 
wild dirge of the glave; 

On came the Champion of the Cross, and 
near him, like a star, 

The regal Berengaria, beauteous daughter 
of Navarre; 

The high, heroic Saladin, with proud and 
haughty mien, 

The rich and gorgeous Saracen, and the 
fiery Nazarene; 

There Edith and her Nubian slave breathed 
many a thought divine, 

Whilst rank on rank—a glorious team— 
rode the Knights of Palestine. 

Straight follow’d Zerubbabel and Joliffe 
of the Tower, 

Young Wildrake, Markham, Hazeldine, 
and the forest nymph Mayflower; 







268 


FIRESIDE ENCYCLOPAEDIA OF P0ET2Y. 


The democratic Cromwell, stern, resolute, 
and free, 

The knight of Woodstock and the light 
and lovely Alice Lee. 

And there the crafty Proudfute for once 
true sorrow felt; 

Craigdallie, Chartres, and the recreant 
Conachar the Celt, 

And he whose chivalry had graced a more 
exalted birth, 

The noble-minded Henry, and the famed 
Fair Maid of Perth. 

The intrepid Anne of Geierstein, the false 
Lorraine stepp’d near; 

Proud Margaret of Anjou, and the faith¬ 
ful, brave De Vere; 

There Arnold, and the King Rene, and 
Charles the Bold had met 

The dauntless Donnerhugel and the grace¬ 
ful young Lizette. 

Forth rode the glorious Godfrey, by the 
gallant Hugh the Great, 

While wept the brave and beautiful their 
noble minstrel’s fate; 

Then Hereward the Varangian, with 
Bertha at his side, 

The valorous Count of Paris and his Ama¬ 
zonian bride. 

At last, amidst that princely train, waved 
high De Walton’s plume, 

Near fair Augusta’s laurel-wreath, which 
Time shall ne’er consume, 

And Anthony, with quiver void, his last 
fleet arrow sped, 

Leant, mourning o’er his broken bow, and 
mused upon the dead. 

Still onward like the gathering night ad¬ 
vanced that funeral train— 

Like billows when the tempest sweeps 
across the shadowy main; 

Where’er the eager gaze might reach, in 
noble ranks were seen 

Dark plume, and glittering mail and crest, 
and woman’s beauteous mien ! 

A sound thrill’d through that length’ning 
host! methought the vault was 
closed, 

Where, in his glory and renown, fair 
Scotia’s bard reposed ! 


| A sound thrill’d through that length’ning 
host! and forth my vision fled ! 

But, ah ! that mournful dream proved true, 
—the immortal Scott was dead ! 

The vision and the voice are o’er! their 
influence waned away, 

Like music o’er a summer lake at the gold¬ 
en close of day: 

The vision and the voice are o’er!—but 
when will be forgot 

The buried Genius of Romance—the im¬ 
perishable Scott ? 

Charles Swain. 

ICHABOD. 

So fallen ! so lost! the light withdrawn 
Which once he wore ! 

The glory from his gray hairs gone 
For evermore! 

Revile him not—the tempter hath 
A snare for all; 

And pitying tears, not scorn and wrath, 
Befit his fall ! 

Oh ! dumb be passion’s stormy rage, 

When he who might 

Have lighted up and led his age, 

Falls back in night. 

Scorn ! Would the angels laugh, to ma^k 
A bright soul driven, 

Fiend-goaded, down the endless dark, 
From hope and Heaven ? 

Let not the land, once proud of him, 
Insult him now; 

Nor brand with deeper shame his dim, 
Dishonor’d brow. 

But let its humbled sons, instead, 

From sea to lake, 

A long lament, as for the dead, 

In sadness make. 

Of all we loved and honor’d, naught 
Save power remains— 

A fallen angel’s pride of thought, 

Still strong in chains, 








THE NIGHTINGALE 

* 

“The same that ofttimes hath 

Charm’d magic casements opening on the foam 
Of perilous seas, in fairy lands forlorn .”—Page 483. 























THE CATARACT OF LODORE 

“ All at once and all o’er, with a mighty uproar, 

And this way the water comes down at Lodore .”—Page 528. 




PERSON. L L 1 •OEMS. 


All else is gone ; from those great eyes 
The soul has fled : 

When faith is lost, when honor dies, 

The man is dead ! 

Then, pay the reverence of old days 
To his dead fame ; 

Walk backward, with averted gaze, 

And hide the shame ! 

John Greeni.eaf Whittier. 

Napoleon. 

The mighty sun had just gone down 
Into the chambers of the deep, 

The ocean birds had upward flown, 

Each in his cave to sleep, 

And silent was the island shore, 

And breathless all the broad red sea, 
And motionless beside the door 
Our solitary tree. 

Our only tree, our ancient palm, 

Whose shadow sleeps our door beside, 
Partook the universal calm 
When Buonaparte died. 

An ancient man, a stately man, 

Came forth beneath the spreading tree; 
His silent thoughts I could not scan, 

His tears T needs must see. 

A trembling hand had partly cover’d 
The old man’s weeping countenance, 

Yet something o’er his sorrow hover’d, 
That spake of war and France; 
Something that spake of other days, 

When trumpets pierced the kindling air, 
And the keen eye could firmly gaze 
Through battle’s crimson glare. 

Said I, “ Perchance this faded hand, 

When life beat high and hope was 
young, 

By Lodi’s wave, or Syria’s sand, 

The bolt of death had flung. 

Young Buonaparte’s battle-cry 

Perchance hath kindled this old cheek; 
It is no shame that he should sigh— 

Ilis heart is like to break ! 

He hath been with him young and old, 

He climb’d with him the Alpine snow, 
He heard the cannon when they roll’d 
Along the river Po. 

His soul was as a sword, to leap 
At his accustom’d leader’s word ; 


I love to see the old man weep— 

He knew no other lord. 

As if it were but yesternight, 

This man remembers dark Eylau: 

His dreams are of the eagle’s flight 
Victorious long ago. 

The memories of worser time 
Are all as shadows unto him ; 

Fresh stands the picture of his prime— 
The later trace is dim.” 

I enter’d, and I saw him lie 
Within the chamber all alone ; 

I drew T near very solemnly 
To dead Napoleon. 

He was not shrouded in a shroud, 

He lay not like the vulgar dead, 

Yet all of haughty, stern, and proud, 

From his pale brow was fled. 

He had put harness on to die; 

The eagle star shone on his breast, 

His sword lay bare his pillow nigh, 

The sword he liked the best. 

But calm, most calm, was all his face, 

A solemn smile w'as on his lips, 

His eyes were closed in pensive grace,— 

A most serene eclipse! 

Ye would have said some sainted sprite 
Had left its passionless abode,— 

Some man, whose prayer at morn and 
night 

Had duly risen to God. 

What thoughts had calm’d his dying 
breast 

(For calm he died) cannot be know T n; 
Nor would I wound a warrior’s rest,— 
Farewell, Napoleon! 

John Gibson Lockhart- 

Napoleon's Midnight Review. 

i. 

When the midnight hour is come, 

The drummer forsakes his tomb, 

And marches, beating his phantom-drum 
To and fro through the ghastly gloom. 

He plies the drumsticks twain 
With fleshless fingers pale, 

And beats, and beats again and again, 

A long and dreary Reveille. 

Like the voice of abysmal w r aves 
Resounds its unearthly tone. 









270 


II REVIVE AUVUrULUl'jKUlA UK KUKTRY. 


Till the dead old soldiers, long in their 
graves, 

Awaken through every zone. 

And the slain in the land of the Hun, 

And the frozen in the icy North, 

And those who under the burning sun 
Of Italy sleep, come forth. 

And they whose bones longwhile 
Lie bleaching in Syrian sands, 

And the sluinberers under the reeds of the 
Nile, 

Arise, with arms in their hands. 

II. 

And at midnight, in his shroud, 

The trumpeter leaves his tomb, 

And blows a blast long, deep, and loud, 

As he rides through the ghastly gloom. 

And the yellow moonlight shines 
On the old Imperial Dragoons; 

And the Cuirassiers they form in lines, 

And the Carabineers in platoons. 

At a signal the ranks unsheathe 
Their weapons in rear and van ; 

But they scarcely appear to speak or 
breathe, 

And their features are sad and wan. 
hi. 

And when midnight robes the sky, 

The Emperor leaves his tomb, 

And rides along, surrounded by 
His shadowy staff, through the gloom. 

A silver star so bright, 

Is glittering on his breast; 

In an uniform of blue and white 
And a gay camp-frock he is dressed. 

The moonbeams shine afar 

On the various marshalled groups, 

As the Man with the glittering silver star 
Proceeds to review his troops. 

And the dead battalions all 
Go again through their exercise, 

Till the moon withdraws, and a gloomier 
pall 

Of blackness wraps the skies. 

Then around their chief once more 
The Generals and Marshals throng; 


And he whispers a word oft heard before 
In the ear of the aide-de-camp. 

In files the troops advance, 

And then are no longer seen. 

The challenging watchword given is 
“ France!” 

The answer is “»St. Helene!” 

| And this is the Grand Review, 

Which at midnight on the wolds, 

If popular tales may pass for true, 

The buried Emperor holds. 

Joseph Christian von Zedlitz. 
(Translated by Clarence Mangan.) 

On the Statue of King Charles 
I. at Charing Cross in the 
Year 167 4 . 

That the First Charles does here in tri¬ 
umph ride; 

See his Son reign, where he a Martyr died ; 
And people pay that reverence, as they pass, 
(When then he wanted!) to the sacred 
brass; 

Is not th’ effect of gratitude alone, 

To which w r e owe the statue, and the stone. 
But, heaven this lasting monument has 
wrought, 

That mortals may eternally be taught, 
Rebellion, though successful, is but vain ; 
And Kings so killed rise conquerors again. 
This truth the royal image does proclaim, 
Loud as the trumpet of surviving Fame. 

Edmund Waller. 

On the Defeat of Henry Clay. 

Fallen? How fallen? States and empires 
fall; 

O’er towers and rock-built walls, 

And perished nations, floods to tempests call 
With hollow sound along the sea of time: 

The great man never falls. 

Helives, he towers aloft, he stands sublime— 
They fall who give him not 
The honor here that suits his future name— 
They die and are forgot. 

0 Giant loud and blind! the great man’s 
fame 

Is his own shadow, and not cast by thee— 
A shadow that shall grow 





PERSONAL POEMS. 


271 


As down the heaven of time the sun de¬ 
scends, 

And on the world shall throw 
His god-like image, till it sinks where 
blends 

Time’s dim horizon with Eternity. 

William. Wit.berforce Lord. 

Ode on the Death of the Duke 
of Wellington. 

i. 

Bury the Great Duke 
With an empire’s lamentation, 

Let us bury the Great Duke 
To the noise of the mourning of a mighty 
nation, 

Mourning when their leaders fall, 

Warriors carry the warrior’s pall, 

And sorrow darkens hamlet and hall. 

II. 

Where shall we lay the man whom we 
deplore ? 

Here, in streaming London’s central roar. 
Let the sound of those he wrought for, 

And the feet of those he fought for, 

Echo round his bones for evermore. 

in. 

Lead out the pageant: sad and slow, 

As fits an universal woe, 

Let the long, long procession go, 

And let the sorrowing crowd about it 
grow, 

And let the mournful martial music blow. 
The last great Englishman is low. 

• IV. 

Mourn, for to us he seems the last, 
Remembering all his greatness in the 
past. 

No more in soldier fashion will he greet 
With lifted hand the gazer in the street. 

O friends, our chief state-oracle is dead: 
Mourn for the man of long-enduring blood, 
The statesman-warrior, moderate, resolute, 
Whole in himself, a common good. 

Mourn for the man of amplest influence, 
Yet clearest of ambitious crime, 

Our greatest yet with least pretence, 


Great in council and great in war, 
Foremost captain of his time, 

Rich in saving common-sense, 

And, as the greatest only are, 

In his simplicity sublime. 

0 good gray head which all men knew, 

O voice from which their omens all men 
drew, 

O iron nerve to true occasion true, 

Oh fall'll at length that tower of strength 
Which stood four-square to all the winds 
that blew! 

Such was he whom we deplore. 

The long self-sacrifice of life is o’er. 

The great World-victor’s victor will be 
seen no more. 

v. 

All is over and done: 

Render thanks to the Giver, 

England, for thy son. 

Let the bell be toll’d. 

Render thanks to the Giver, 

And render him to the mould. 

Under the cross of gold 
That shines over city and river, 

There he shall rest for ever 
Among the wise and the bold. 

Let the bell be toll’d : 

And a reverent people behold 
The towering car, the sable steeds: 

Bright let it be with his blazon’d deeds, 
Dark in its funeral fold. 

Let the bell be toll’d : 

And a deeper knell in the heart be 
knoll’d; 

And the sound of the sorrowing anthem 
roll’d 

Through the dome of the golden cross; 
And the volleying cannon thunder hie 

loss; 

He knew their voices of old. 

For many a time in many a clime 
His captain’s ear has heard them boom 
Bellowing victory, bellowing doom : 

When he with those deep voices wrought, 
Guarding realms and kings from shame; 
With those deep voices our dead captain 
taught 

The tyrant, and asserts his claim 
In that dread sound to the great name, 
Which he has worn so pure of blame. 








FIRESIDE ENCYCLOPAEDIA OF POETRY . 


In praise and in dispraise the same, 

A man of well-attemper’d frame. 

0 civic muse, to such a name, 

To such a name for ages long, 

To such a name, 

Preserve a broad approach of fame, 

And ever-echoing avenues of song. 

VI. 

Who is he that cometh, like an honor’d 
guest, 

With banner and with music, with soldier 
and with priest, 

With a nation weeping, and breaking on 
my rest? 

Mighty seaman, this is he 
Was great by land as thou by sea. 

Thine island loves thee well, thou famous 
man, 

The greatest sailor since our world be¬ 
gan. 

Now, to the roll of muffled drums, 

To thee the greatest soldier comes; 

For this is he 

Was great by land as thou by sea: 

His foes were thine ; he kept us free; 

Oh give him welcome, this is he, 

Worthy of our gorgeous rites, 

And worthy to be laid by thee; 

For this is England’s greatest son, 

He that gain’d a hundred fights, 

Nor ever lost an English gun; 

This is he that far away 
Against the myriads of Assaye 
Clash’d with his fiery few and won ; 

And underneath another sun, 

Warring on a later day, 

Round affrighted Lisbon drew 
The treble works, the vast designs 
Of his labor’d rampart-lines, 

Where he greatly stood at bay, 

Whence he issued forth anew, 

And ever great and greater grew, 

Beating from the wasted vines 
Back to France her banded swarms, 

Back to France with countless blows, 

Till o’er the hills her eagles flew 
Past the Pyrenean pines; 

Follow’d up in valley and glen 
With blare of bugle, clamor of men, 

Roll of cannon and clash of arms, 


And England pouring on her foes. 

Such a war had such a close. 

Again their ravening eagle rose 
In anger, wheel’d on Europe-shadowing 
wings, 

And barking for the thrones of kings ; 

Till one that sought but Duty’s iron crown 
On that loud Sabbath shook the spoiler 
down; 

A day of onsets of despair! 

Dash’d on every rocky square 
Their surging charges foam’d themselves 
away; 

Last, the Prussian trumpet blew; 

Through the long tormented air 
Heaven flash’d a sudden jubilant ray, 

And down we swept and charged and over¬ 
threw. 

So great a soldier taught us there, 

What long-enduring hearts could do 
In that world-earthquake, Waterloo ! 
Mighty seaman, tender and true, 

And pure as he from taint of craven guile, 
O savior of the silver-coasted isle, 

O shaker of the Baltic and the Nile, 

If aught of things that here befall 
Touch a spirit among things divine, 

If love of country move thee there at all, 
Be glad, because his bones are laid by 
thine! 

And through the centuries let a people’s 
voice 

In full acclaim, 

A people’s voice, 

The proof and echo of all human fame, 

A people’s voice, when they rejoice 
At civic revel and pomp and game, 

Attest their great commander’s claim 
With honor, honor, honor, honor to him, 
Eternal honor to his name.. 

VII. 

A people’s voice! we are a people yet. 
Though all men else their nobler dreams 
forget, 

Confused by brainless mobs and lawless 
powers; 

Thank Him who isled us here, and roughly 

set 

His Briton in blown seas and storming 
showers, 

, We have a voice, with which to pay the debt 









PERSONAL POEMS. 


273 


Of boundless love and reverence and regret 
To those great men who fought, and kept 
it ours. 

And keep it ours, O God, from brute con¬ 
trol ; 

O statesmen, guard us, guard the eye, the 
soul 

Of Europe, keep our noble England whole, 
And save the one true seed of freedom 
sown 

Betwixt a people and their ancient throne, 
That sober freedom out of which there 
springs 

Our loyal passion for our temperate kings; 
For, saving that, ye help to save mankind 
Till public wrong be crumbled into dust, 
And drill the raw world for the march of 
mind, 

Till crowds at length be sane and crowns 
be just. 

But wink no more in slothful overtrust. 
Remember him who led your hosts ; 

He bade you guard the sacred coasts. 

Your cannons moulder on the seaward 
wall; 

His voice is silent in your council-hall 
For ever; and whatever tempests lower 
For ever silent ; even if they broke 
In thunder, silent; vet remember all 
He spoke among you, and the Man who 
spoke; 

Who never sold the truth to serve the hour, 
Nor palter’d with eternal God for power ; 
Who let the turbid streams of rumor How 
Through either babbling world of high and 
low; 

Whose life was work, whose language rife 
With rugged maxims hewn from life; 

Who never spoke against a foe; 

Whose eighty winters freeze with one re¬ 
buke 

All great self-seekers trampling on the 
right: 

Truth-teller was our England’s Alfred 
named; 

Truth-lover was our English Duke ; 
Whatever record leap to light 
He never shall be shamed. 

VIII. 

Lo, the leader in these glorious wars 
Now’ to glorious burial slowly borne, 

18 


Followed by the brave of other lands, 

He, on w'hom from both her open hands 
Lavish Honor shower’d all her stars, 

And affluent Fortune emptied all her 
horn. 

' Yea, let all good things await 
Him who cares not to be great, 

But as he saves or serves the state. 

Not once or tw’ice in our rough island- 
story, 

The path of duty was the way to glory: 

He that w r alks it, only thirsting 
For the right, and learns to deaden 
Love of self, before his journey closes, 

He shall find the stubborn thistle bursting 
Into glossy purples, which outredden 
All voluptuous garden-roses. 

Not once or twice in our fair island-story, 
The path of duty w r as the way to glory: 
He, that ever following her commands, 

On with toil of heart and knees and hands 
Through the long gorge to the far light 
has wmn 

His path upward, and prevail’d, 

Shall find the toppling crags of Duty 
scaled 

Are close upon the shining table-lands 
To which our God Himself is moon and 
sun. 

Such w r as he: his work is done. 

But while the races of mankind endure, 
Let his great example stand 
Colossal, seen of every land, 

And keep the soldier firm, the statesman 
pure; 

Till in all lands and through all human 
story 

The path of duty be the w r ay to glory: 
And let the land whose hearths he saved 
from shame 

For many and many an age proclaim 
At civic revel and pomp and game, 

And when the long-illumined cities flame, 
Their ever-loyal iron leader’s fame, 

With honor, honor, honor, honor to him, 
Eternal honor to his name. 

IX. 

Peace, his triumph will be sung 
By some yet unmoulded tongue 
Far on in summers that w r e shall not see: 
Peace, it is a day of pain 





274 


FIRESIDE ENCYCLOPAEDIA OF POETRY. 


For one about whose patriarchal knee 
Late the little children clung: 

O peace, it is a day of pain 
For one upon whose hand and heart and 
brain 

Once the weight and fate of Europe hung. 
Ours the pain, be his the gain ! 

More than is of man’s degree 
Must be with us, watching here 
At this, our great solemnity. 

Whom we see not we revere. 

We revere, and we refrain 
From talk of battles loud and vain, 

And brawling memories all too free 
For such a wise humility 
As befits a solemn fane : 

We revere, and while we hear 
The tides of Music’s golden sea 
Betting toward eternity, 

Uplifted high in heart and hope are we, 
Until we doubt not that for one so true 
There must be other nobler work to do 
Than when he fought at Waterloo, 

And Victor he must ever be. 

For though the Giant Ages heave the hill 
And break the shore, and evermore 
Make and break, and work their will; 
Though world on world in myriad myriads 
roll 

Round us, each with different powers, 

And other forms of life than ours, 

What know we greater than the soul? 

On God and godlike men we build our trust. 
Hush, the Dead March wails in the peo¬ 
ple’s ears: 

The dark crowd moves, and there are sobs 
and tears: 

The black earth yawns: the mortal disap¬ 
pears ; 

Ashes to ashes, dust to dust; 

He is gone who seem’d so great.— 

Gone ; but nothing can bereave him 
Of the force he made his own 
Being here, and we believe him 
Something far advanced in state, 

And that he wears a truer crown 

Than any wreath that man can weave him. 

Speak no more of his renown, 

Lay your earthly fancies down, 

And in the vast cathedral leave him. 

God accept him, Christ receive him. 


To the Sister of Elia. 

Comfort thee, 0 thou mourner, yet a while! 

Again shall Elia’s smile 

Refresh thy heart, where heart can acne 
no more. 

What is it we deplore ? 

He leaves behind him, freed from griefs 
and years, 

Far worthier things than tears. 

The love of friends without a single foe: 

Unequall’d lot below! 

His gentle soul, his genius, these are thine; 

I For these dost thou repine ? 

He may have left the lowly walks of men; 

Left them he has ; what then ? 

Are not his footsteps follow’d by the eyes 

Of all the good and wise ? 

Tlio’ the warm day is over, yet they seek 

Upon the lofty peak 

Of his pure mind the roseate light that 
glows 

O’er death’s perennial snows. 

Behold him ! from the region of the blest 

| He speaks : he bids thee rest. 

Walter Savage Landor. 

Siie is Far from the Land. 

She is far from the land where her young 
hero sleeps, 

And lovers are round her sighing; 

! But coldly she turns from their gaze, and 
weeps, 

For her heart in his grave is lying. 

She sings the wild song of her dear native 
plains, 

Every note which he loved awaking;— 

Ah ! little they think, who delight in her 
strains, 

How the heart of the Minstrel is break¬ 
ing. 

He had lived for his love, for his country 
he died, 

They were all that to life had entwined 
him; 

: Nor soon shall the tears of his country be 
dried, 

Nor long will his love stay behind him. 


Alfred Tennyson. 








PERSONAL POEMS. 


Oh make her a grave where the sunbeams 
rest 

When they promise a glorious morrow; 

They’ll shine o’er her sleep, like a smile 
from the West, 

From her own loved island of sorrow. 

Thomas Moore. | 

Kane. 

Died February 16, 1857. 

Aloft upon an old basaltic crag, 

Which, scalp’d by keen winds that de¬ 
fend the Pole, 

Gazes with dead face on the seas that roll 

Around the secret of the mystic zone, 

A mighty nation’s star-bespangled flag 
Flutters alone, 

And underneath, upon the lifeless front 

Of Tliat drear cliff, a simple name is 
traced; 

Fit type of him who, famishing and 
gaunt, 

But with a rocky purpose in his soul, 
Breasted the gathering snows, 
Clung to the drifting floes, 

By want beleaguer’d, and by winter 
chased, 

Becking the brother lost amid that frozen 
waste. 

Not many months ago we greeted him, 

Crown’d with the icy honors of the 
North, 

Across the land his hard-won fame went 
forth, 

And Maine’s deep woods were shaken 
limb by limb ; 

His own mild Keystone State, sedate and 
prim, 

Burst from decorous quiet as he came; 

Hot Southern lips with eloquence aflame 

Sounded his triumph. Texas, wild and 
grim, 

Proffer’d its horny hand. The large- 
lung’d West, 

From out its giant breast, 

Fell’d its frank welcome. And from 
main to main, 

Jubilant to the sky, 

Thunder’d the mighty cry, 

Honor to Kane! 


In vain, in vain beneath his feet we flung 

The reddening roses! All in vain we 
pour’d 

The golden wine, and round the shining 
board 

Sent the toast circling, till the rafters 
rung 

With the thrice-tripled honors of the 
feast! 

Scarce the buds wilted and the voices 
ceased 

Ere the pure light that sparkled in his 
eyes, 

Bright as auroral fypes in Southern skies, 

Faded and faded ! And the brave young 
heart 

That the relentless Arctic winds had 
robb’d 

Of all its vital heat, in that long quest 

For the lost captain, now within his 
breast 

More and more faintly throbb’d. 

His was the victory ; but as his grasp 

Closed on the laurel crown with eager 
clasp, 

Death launch’d a whistling dart; 

And ere the thunders of applause were 
done 

His bright eyes closed for ever on the sun! 

Too late, too late the splendid prize he won 

In the Olympic race of Science and of 
Art! 

Like to some shatter’d berg that, pale and 
lone, 

Drifts from the white North to a tropic 
zone, 

And in the burning day 

Wastes peak by peak away, 

Till on some rosy even 

It dies with sunlight blessing it; so he 

Tranquilly floated to a Southern sea, 

And melted into heaven. 


He needs no tears, who lived a noble life; 

We will not weep for him who died so 
well, 

But we will gather round the hearth, 
and tell 

The story of his strife; 

Such homage suits him well, 

Better than funeral pomp or passing 
bell. 









276 


FIRESIDE ENCYCLOPAEDIA OF POETRY. 


What tale of peril and self-sacrifice! 

Prison’d amid the fastnesses of ice, 

With hunger howling o’er the wastes of 
snow! 

Night lengthening into months, the rav¬ 
enous floe 

Crunching the massive ships, as the white 
bear 

Crunches his prey. The insufficient share 

Of loathsome food, 

The lethargy of famine, the despair 
Urging to labor, nervelessly pursued, 
Toil done with skinny arms, and faces 
hued 

Like pallid masks, while dolefully behind 

Glimmer’d the fading embers of a mind! 

That awful hour, when through the pros¬ 
trate band 

Delirium stalk’d, laying his burning hand 
Upon the ghastly foreheads of the crew. 
The whispers of rebellion, faint and few 
At first, but deepening ever till they 
grew 

Into black thoughts of murder; such the 
throng 

Of horrors bound the hero. High the song 

Should be that hymns the noble part he 
play’d! 

Sinking himself, yet ministering aid 
To all around him. By a mighty will 
Living defiant of the wants that kill, 

Because his death would seal his com¬ 
rades’ fate; 

Cheering with ceaseless and inventive 
skill 

Those Polar waters, dark and desolate. 

Equal to every trial, every fate, 

He stands, until Spring, tardy with re¬ 
lief, 

Unlocks the icy gate, 

And the pale prisoners thread the world 
once more, 

To the steep cliffs of Greenland’s pastoral 
shore 

Bearing their dying chief. 

Time was when he should gain his spurs 
of gold 

From royal hands, who woo’d the 
knightly state; 

The knell of old formalities is toll’d, 

And the world’s knights are now self- 
consecrate. 


No grander episode doth chivalry hold 
In all its annals, back to Charlemagne, 
Than that lone vigil of unceasing 
pain, 

Faithfully kept through hunger and 
through cold, 

By the good Christian knight, ELISHA 
Kane ! 

Fitz-James O’Brien. 

Fidele. 

Died August 15, 1880. 

“With fairest flowers, 

While summer lasts, and I live here, Fidele, 

I’ll sweeteu thy sad grave.” 

And oh, to think the sun can shine, 

The birds can sing, the flowers can bloom, 

And she, whose soul was all divine, 

Be darkly mouldering in the tomb ; 

That o’er her head the night-wind sighs, 
And the sad cypress droops and moans ,• 

That night has veiled her glorious eyes, 
And silence hushed her heavenly tones ; 

That those sweet lips no more can smile, 
Nor pity’s tender shadows chase, 

With many a gentle, child-like wile, 

The rippling laughter o’er her face; 

That dust is on the burnished gold 
That floated round her royal head; 

That her great heart is dead and cold— 
Her form of fire and beauty dead ! 

Roll on, gray earth and shining star, 

And coldly mock our dreams of bliss; 

There is no glory left to mar, 

Nor any grief so black as this! 

William Winter- 


Epitaph on the Lady Mary 
Villiers. 

The Lady Mary Villiers lies 
Under this stone: With weeping eyes 
The parents that first gave her breath. 
And their sad friends, laid her in earth 
If any of them, reader, were 
Known unto thee, shed a tear: 

Or if thyself possess a gem, 

As dear to thee as this to them; 







PERSONAL POEMS. 


277 


Though a stranger to this place, 

Bewail in theirs thine own hard case; 
For thou perhaps at thy return 
Mayst find thy darling in an urn. 

Thomas Carew. 


Brown of Ossawatomie. 

John Brown of Ossawatomie spake on 
his dying day : 

“ I will not have to shrive my soul a priest 
in Slavery’s pay. 

But let some poor slave-mother whom I 
have striven to free, 

With her children, from the gallows-stair 
put up a prayer for me!” 

. John Brown of Ossawatomie, they led him 
out to die; 

And lo ! a poor slave-mother with her little 
child press’d nigh. 

Then the bold blue eye grew tender, and 
the old harsh face grew mild, 

As he stoop’d between the jeering ranks 
and kiss’d the negro’s child ! 

The shadows of his stormy life that mo¬ 
ment fell apart; 

And they who blamed the bloody hand for¬ 
gave the loving heart. 

That kiss from all its guilty means re¬ 
deem’d the good intent, 

And round the grisly fighter’s hair the 
martyr’s aureole bent! 

Perish with him the folly that seeks 
through evil good! 

Long live the generous purpose unstain’d 
with human blood! 

Not the raid of midnight terror, but the 
thought which underlies; 

Not the borderer’s pride of daring, but the 
Christian’s sacrifice. 

Nevermore may yon Blue Ridges the 
Northern rifle hear, 

Nor see the light of blazing homes flash on 
the negro’s spear. 

But let the free-wing’d angel Truth their 
guarded passes scale, 

To teach that right is more than might, 
and justice more than mail! 


So vainly shall Virginia set her battle in 
array: 

In vain her trampling squadrons knead the 
winter snow with clay. 

She may strike the pouncing eagle, but she 
dares not harm the dove; 

And every gate she bars to Hate shall open 
wide to Love! 

John Greenleaf Whittier. 

Dirge for a Soldier. 

In Memory of Gen. Philip Kearney, 
Killed Sept. 1, 1862. 

Close his eyes, his work is done ! 

What to him is friend or foeman, 

Rise of moon, or set of sun, 

Hand of man, or kiss of woman ? 

' Lay him low, lay him low, 

In the clover or the snow ! 

What cares he ? he cannot know: 
Lay him low! 

As man may, he fought his fight, 

Proved his truth by his endeavor; 

Let him sleep in solemn night, 

Sleep for ever and for ever. 

Lay him low, lay him low, 

In the clover or the snow ! 

What cares he ? he cannot know: 
Lay him low! 

Fold him in.his country’s stars, 

Roll the drum and fire the volley ! 
What to him are all our wars, 

What but death bemocking folly ? 

Lay him low, lay him low. 

In the clover or the snow ! 

What cares he? he cannot know: 
Lay him low! 

Leave him to God’s watching eye, 

Trust him to the Hand that made him. 
Mortal love sweeps idly by : 

God alone has power to aid him. 

Lay him low, lay him low, 

In the clover or the snow ! 

What cares he? he cannot know : 
Lay him low! 

George H. Boker. 









f 


278 FIRESIDE ENCYCLOPAEDIA OF POETRY. 


Dedica TION. 


To Idylls of the King. 

These to His memory—since he held them 
dear, 

Perchance as finding there unconsciously 
Some image of himself—I dedicate, 

I dedicate, I consecrate with tears— 

These Idylls. 

And indeed Pie seems to me 
Scarce other than my own ideal knight, 

“ Who reverenced his conscience as his 
king; 

Whose glory was redressing human wrong; 
Who spake no slander, no, nor listen’d to 
it; 

Who loved one only, and who clave to 
her—” 

Her—over all whose realms to their last 
isle, 

Commingled with the gloom of imminent 
war, 

The shadow of His loss drew like eclipse, 
Darkening the world. We have lost him: 
he is gone: 

We know him now: all narrow jealousies 
Are silent; and we see him as he moved, 
How modest, kindly, all-accomplish’d, 
wise, 

With what sublime repression of himself, 
And in what limits, and how tenderly; 

Not swaying to this faction or to that; 

Not making his high place the lawless 
perch 

Of wing’d ambitions, nor a vantage- 
ground 

For pleasure; but thro’ all this tract of 
years 

Wearing the white flower of a blameless 
life, 

Before a thousand peering littlenesses, 

In that fierce light which beats upon a 
throne, 

And blackens every blot: for where is he, 
Who dares foreshadow for an only son 
A lovelier life, a more unstain’d, than 
his ? 

Or how should England, dreaming of his 
sons, 

Hope more for these than some inherit¬ 
ance 

Of such a life, a heart, a mind as thine, 


Thou noble Father of her Kings to be, 
Laborious for her people and her poor— 
Voice in the rich dawn of an ampler day— 
Far-sighted summoner of War and Waste 
To fruitful strifes and rivalries of peace— 
Sweet Nature gilded by the gracious gleam 
Of letters, dear to Science, dear to Art, 
Dear to thy land and ours, a Prince in¬ 
deed, 

Beyond all titles, and a household name, 
Hereafter, thro’ all times, Albert the Good? 

Break not, O woman’s heart, but still 
endure; 

Break not, for thou art Royal, but endure, 
Remembering all the beauty of that star 
Which shone so close beside Thee, that ye 
made 

One light together, but has pass’d, and leaves 
The Crown a lonely splendor. 

May all love, 

His love, unseen but felt, o’ershadow 
Thee, 

The love of all Thy sons encompass Thee, 
The love of all Thy daughters cherish 
Thee, 

The love of all Thy people comfort Thee, 
Till God’s love set Thee at his side again. 

Alfred Tennyson. 

Abraham Lincoln. 

You lay a wreath on murder’d Lincoln’s 
bier, 

You, who with mocking pencil wont to 
trace, 

Broad for the self-complaisant British 
sneer, 

His length of shambling limb, his fur¬ 
row’d face, 

His gaunt, gnarl’d hands, his unkempt, 
bristling hair, 

His garb uncouth, his bearing ill at ease, 
His lack of all we prize as debonair, 

Of power or will to shine, of art to 
please; 

You, whose smart pen back’d up the pen¬ 
cil’s laugh, 

Judging each step as though the way 
were plain; 









PERSONAL POEMS. 


27 !) 


Reckless, so it could point its paragraph, 

• Of chief’s perplexity or people’s pain,— 

Beside this corpse, that bears for winding- 
sheet 

The Stars and Stripes he lived to rear 
anew, 

Between the mourners at his head and feet, 
Say, scurrile jester, is there room for you ? 

Yes: he had lived to shame me from my 
sneer. 

To lame my pencil and confute my pen; 

To make me own this hind of princes peer, 
This rail-splitter, a true-born king of 
men. 

My shallow judgment 1 had learn’d to rue, 
Noting how to occasion’s height he rose ; 

How his quaint wit made home-truth seem 
more true; 

How, iron-like, his temper grew by 
blows; 

How humble, yet how hopeful he could be; 
How in good fortune and in ill the same; 

Nor bitter in success, nor boastful he, 
Thirsty for gold, nor feverish for fame. 

He went about his work, such work as few 
Ever had laid on head and heart and 
hand, 

As one who knows, where there’s a task to 
do, 

Man’s honest will must Heaven’s good 
grace command; 

Who trusts the strength will with the 
burden grow, 

That God makes instruments to work 
his will, 

If but that will we can arrive to know, 
Nor tamper with the weights of good 
and ill. 

So he went forth to battle, on the side 
That he felt clear was Liberty’s and 
Right’s, 

As in his pleasant boyhood he had plied 
His warfare with rude Nature’s thwart¬ 
ing mights— 

The unclear’d forest, the unbroken soil, 
The iron bark that turns the lumberer’s 
axe, 


The rapid that o’erbears the boatman’s 
toil, 

The prairie hiding the mazed wanderer's 
tracks, 

The ambush’d Indian, and the prowling 
bear,— 

Such were the deeds that help’d his 
youth to train : 

Rough culture, but such trees large fruit 
may bear, 

If but their stocks be of right girth and 
grain. 

So he grew up, a destined work to do, 

And lived to do it; four long-suffering 
years’ 

Ill fate, ill feeling, ill report lived through, 

And then he heard the hisses change to 
cheers, 

The taunts to tribute, the abuse to praise, 

And took both with the same unwaver¬ 
ing mood,— 

Till, as he came on light, from darkling 
days, 

And seem’d to touch the goal from 
where he stood, 

A felon hand, between the goal and him, 

Reach'd from behind his back, a trigger 
prest, 

And those perplex’d and patient eyes 
were dim, 

Those gaunt, long-laboring limbs were 
laid to rest. 

The words of mercy were upon his lips, 

Forgiveness in his heart and on his 
pen, 

When this vile murderer brought swift 
eclipse 

To thoughts of peace on earth, good wUl 
to men. 

The Old World and the New, from sea to 
sea, 

Utter one voice of sympathy and 
shame. 

Sore heart, so stopp’d when it at last 
beat high! 

Sad life, cut short just as its triumph 
came! 







280 


FIRESIDE ENCYCLOPAEDIA OF POETRY. 


A deed accursed! Strokes have been 
struck before 

By the assassin’s hand, whereof men 
doubt 

If more of horror or disgrace they bore; 

But thy foul crime, like Cain’s, stands 
darkly out, 

Vile hand, that brandest murder on a 
strife, 

Whate’er its grounds, stoutly and nobly 
striven, 

And with the martyr’s crown crownest a 
life 

With much to praise, little to be for¬ 
given. 

Tom Taylor. 


Dickens in Camp. 

Above the pines the moon was slowly 
drifting, 

The river sang below; 

The dim Sierras, far beyond, uplifting 
Their minarets of snow. 


The fir trees, gathering closer in the 
shadows, 

Listen’d in every spray, 

While the whole camp, with “Nell” cu 
English meadows, 

Wander’d and lost their way. 

And so in mountain solitudes—o’ertaken 

As by some spell divine— 

Their cares dropp’d from them like the 
needles shaken 

From out the gusty pine. 

Lost is that camp, and wasted all its fire: 

And he who wrought that spell?— 

Ah, towering pine and stately Kentish 
spire, 

Ye have one tale to te 

Lost is that camp! but let its fragrant 
story 

Blend with the breath that thrills 
With hop-vines’ incense all the pensive 
glory 

That fills the Kentish hills. 


The roaring camp-fire, with rude humor, 
painted 

The ruddy tints of health 

On haggard face and form that droop’d 
and fainted 

In the fierce race for wealth; 

Till one arose, and from his pack’s scant 
treasure 

A hoarded volume drew, 

And cards were dropp’d from hands of 
listless leisure 

To hear the tale anew ; 

And then, while round them shadows 
gather’d faster, 

And as the firelight fell, 

He read aloud the book wherein the 
Master 

Had writ of “ Little Nell.” 

Perhaps ’twas boyish fancy, — for the 
reader 

Was youngest of them all,— 

But, as he read, from clustering pine and 
cedar 

A silence seem’d to fall; 


And on that grave where English oak and 
holly 

And laurel leaves entwine, 

Deem it not all a too presumptuous folly,— 
This spray of Western pine! 

Francis Bret Harte. 


Hester. 

When maidens such as Hester die, 
Their place ye may not well supply, 
Though ye among a thousand try, 
With vain endeavor. 

A month or more hath she been dead, 
Yet cannot I by force be led 
To think upon the wormy bed 
And her, together. 

A springy motion in her gait, 

A rising step did indicate 
Of pride and joy no common rate, 
That flush’d her spirit; 

I know not by what name beside 
I shall it call: if ’twas not pride, 

It was a joy to that allied, 

She did inherit. 








PERSONAL POEMS. 


281 


Her parents held the Quaker rule, 
Which doth the human feeling cool; 
But she was train’d in Nature’s school— 
Nature had bless’d her. 

A waking eye, a prying mind, 

A heart that stirs, is hard to bind ; 

A hawk’s keen sight ye cannot blind— 
Ye could not Hester. 

My sprightly neighbor, gone before 
To that unknown and silent shore ! 
Shall we not meet, as heretofore, 

Some summer morning, 

When from thy cheerful eyes a ray 
Hath struck a bliss upon the day— 

A bliss that would not go away—- 
A sweet forewarning? 

Charles Lamb. 


Anne Hathaway. 

Would ye be taught, ye feathered throng, 
With love’s sweet notes to grace your song, 
To pierce the heart with thrilling lay, 
Listen to mine Anne Hathaway! 

She hath a way to sing so clear, 

Phoebus might wandering stop to hear. 

To melt the sad, make blithe the gay, 

And nature charm, Anne hath a way; 

She hath a way, 

Anne Hathaway; 

To breathe delight Anne hath a way. 

When Envy’s breath and rancorous tooth 
Do soil and bite fair worth and truth, 

And merit to distress betray, 

To soothe the heart Anne hath a way. 

She hath a way to chase despair, 

To heal all grief, to cure all care, 

Turn foulest night to fairest day; 

Thou know’st, fond heart, Anne hath a 
way; 

She hath a way, 

Anne Hathaway; 

To make grief bliss, Anne hath a way. 

Talk not of gems, the orient list, 

The diamond, topaz, amethyst, 

The emerald mild, the ruby gay ; 

Talk of my gem, Anne Hathaway ! 


She hath a way, with her bright eye, 

Their various lustres to defy,— 

The jewels she, and the foil they, 

So sweet to look Anne hath a way; 

She hath a way, 

Anne Hathaway; 

To shame bright gems, Anne hath a way. 

But were it to my fancy given 

To rate her charms, I’d call them heaven; 

For though a mortal made of clay, 

Angels must love Anne Hathaway; 

She hath a way so to control, 

To rapture, the imprisoned soul, 

And sweetest heaven on earth display, 
That to be heaven Anne hath a way; 

She hath a way, 

Anne Hathaway; 

To be heaven’s self, Anne hath a way. 

Charles Dibdin. 


SONNET: YlTA NUOVA. 

(Dedication to Queen Victoria op his 
Translation of Dante’s Commedia 
AND CANZONIERE.) 

To bear the burden of an Empire’s care, 
The ruler of a people proud and free, 
This was the New Life, Lady, given to 
thee, 

When yet the dawn of youth was gleaming 
fair. 

Then came a Newer Life, more rich and 
rare, 

Soul knit with soul, abiding unity, 

The open page where all the world might 
see 

The pattern of a bliss beyond compare. 

Then through the vale of shadows thou 
wast led, 

Bearing thy Cross, though wearer of a 
Crown: 

Men might have deemed that hope and joy 
had fled, 

That thou must walk alway with eyes 
cast down. 

Lo! yet a New Life waits thee ere the 
night: 

Calm and serene, at eventide ’tis light. 

Edward Hayes Plimptre. 




U6V 


FIRESIDE ENCYCLOPAEDIA OF POETRY. 


A Health. 

T fill this cup to one made up 
Of loveliness alone, 

A woman, of her gentle sex 
The seeming paragon; 

To whom the better elements 
And kindly stars have given 
A form so fair, that, like the air, 

’Tis less of earth than heaven. 

Her every tone is music’s own, 

Like those of morning birds, 

4nd something more than melody 
Dwells ever in her words; 

The coinage of her heart are they, 

And from her lips each flows, 

4s one may see the burden’d bee 
Forth issue from the rose. 

4ftections are as thoughts to her, 

The measures of her hours, 

Her feelings have the fragraney, 

The freshness of young flowers; 

Vnd lovely passions, changing oft, 

So fill her, she appears 
The image of themselves by turns,— 
The idol of past years! 

)f her bright face one glance will trace 
A picture on the brain, 


; And of her voice in echoing hearts 
A sound must long remain; 

But memory, such as mine of her, 

So very much endears, 

When death is nigh my latest sigh 
Will not be life’s, but hers. 

I fill this cup to one made up 
Of loveliness alone, 

A woman, of her gentle sex 
The seeming paragon;— 

Her health ! and would on earth there stood 
Some more of such a frame, 

That life might all be poetry, 

And weariness a name. 

Edward Coate Pinkney. 

Jacqueminot. 

I Who is there now knows aught of his 
story ? 

What is left of him but a name?- 
Of him who shared in Napoleon’s glory, 
And dreamed that his sword had won 
him his fame! 

Ah! the fate of a man is past discerning! 

Little did Jacqueminot suppose, . 

At Austerlitz or at Moscow’s burning, 
That his fame would rest in the heart 
of a rose! 


Bessie Chandler. 








Historical Poems. 


The Destruction of Sennach¬ 
erib. 

The Assyrian came down like the wolf on 
the fold, 

And his cohorts were gleaming in purple 
and gold; 

And the sheen of their spears was like 
stars on the sea, 

When the blue wave rolls nightly on deep 
Galilee. 

Like the leaves of the forest when sum¬ 
mer is green, 

That host with their banners at sunset 
were seen; 

Like the leaves of the forest when autumn 
hath blown, 

That host on the morrow lay wither’d and 
strown. 

For the Angel of Death spread his wings 
on the blast, 

And breathed in the face of the foe as he ' 
pass’d; 

And the eyes of the sleepers wax’d deadly 
and chill, 

And their hearts but once heaved, and for 
ever grew still! 

And there lay the steed with his nostril all i 
wide, 

7 b I 

But through it there roll’d not the breath j 
of his pride; 

And the foam of his gasping lay white on 
the turf, 

And cold as the spray of the rock-beating 
surf. 

And there lay the rider distorted and ' 
pale, 

With the dew on his brow and the rust on 
his mail; 


And the tents were all silent, the banners 
alone, 

The lances unlifted, the trumpet unblown. 

And the widows of Ashur are loud in 
their Avail; 

And the idols are broke in the temple of 
Baal; 

And the might of the Gentile, unsmote by 
the sword, 

Hath melted like snow in the glance of 
the Lord ! 

Lord Byron. 

HORATIUS. 

Lars Porsena of Clusium, 

By the nine gods he swore 
That the great house of Tarquin 
Should suffer wrong no more. 

By the nine gods he swore it, 

And named a trysting-dav, 

And bade his messengers ride forth, 

East and west and south and north, 

To summon his array. 

East and west and south and north 
The messengers ride fast, 

And tOAver and tOAvn and cottage 
Have heard the trumpet’s blast. 

Shame on the false Etruscan 
Who lingers in his home, 

When Porsena of Clusium 
Is on the march for Rome ! 

The horsemen and the footmen 
Are pouring in amain 
From many a stately market-place, 

From many a fruitful plain, 

From many a lonely hamlet, 

Which, hid by beech and pine, 

Like an eagle’s nest hangs on the crest 
Of purple Apennine; 


283 






284 


FIRESIDE ENCYCLOPAEDIA OF POETRY. 


From lordly Vollaterrae, 

Where scowls the far-famed hold 

Piled by the hands of giants 
For godlike kings of old; 

From sea-girt Populonia, 

Whose sentinels descry 

Sardinia’s snowy mountain-tops 
Fringing the southern sky; 

From the proud mart of Pisae, 

Queen of the western waves, 

Where ride Massilia’s triremes, 

Heavy with fair-hair’d slaves; 

From where sweet Clanis wanders 
Through corn and vines and flowers; 

From where Cortona lifts to heaven 
Her diadem of towers. 

Tall are the oaks whose acorns 
Drop in dark Auser’s rill; 

Fat are the stags that champ the boughs 
Of the Ciminian hill; 

Beyond all streams, Clitumnus 
Is to the herdsman dear; 

Best of all pools the fowler loves 
The great Volsinian mere. 

But now no stroke of woodman 
Is heard by Auser’s rill; 

No hunter tracks the stag’s green path 
Up the Ciminian hill; 

Unwatch’d along Clitumnus 
Grazes the milk-white steer; 

Unharm’d the water-fowl may dip 
In the Volsinian mere. 

The harvests of Arretium, 

This year, old men shall reap ; 

This year, young boys in Umbro 
Shall plunge the struggling sheep ; 

And in the vats of Luna, 

This year, the must shall foam 

Bound the white feet of laughing girls 
Whose sires have march’d to Rome. 

There be thirty chosen prophets, 

The wisest of the land, 

Who always by Lars Porsena 
Both morn and evening stand. 

Evening and morn the thirty 
Have turn’d the verses o’er, 

Traced from the right on linen white 
By mighty seers of yore; 


And with one voice the thirty 
Have their glad answer given: 

“ Go forth, go forth, Lars Porsena—■ 

Go forth, beloved of heaven ! 

Go, and return in glory 
To Clusium’s royal dome, 

And hang round Nurscia’s altars 
The golden shields of Rome !” 

And now r hath every city 
Sent up her tale of men ; 

The foot are fourscore thousand, 

The horse are thousands ten. 

Before the gates of Sutrium 
Is met the great array ; 

A proud man was Lars Porsena 
Upon the trysting-day. 

For all the Etruscan armies 
Were ranged beneath his eye, 

And many a banish’d Roman, 

And many a stout ally; 

And with a mighty following, 

To join the muster, came 
The Tusculan Mamilius, 

Prince of the Latian name. 

But by the yellow Tiber 
Was tumult and affright; 

From all the spacious champaign 
To Rome men took their flight. 

A mile around the city 
The throng stopp’d up the ways; 

A fearful sight it was to see 
Through two long nights and days. 

For aged folk on crutches, 

And women great with child, 

And mothers sobbing over babes 
That hung to them and smiled, 

And sick men borne in litters 
High on the necks of slaves, 

And troops of sunburn’d husbandmen 
With reaping-hooks and staves, 

And di'oves of mules and asses 
Laden with skins of wine, 

And endless flocks of goats and sheep, 
And endless herds of kine, 

And endless trains of wagons, 

That creak’d beneath the weight 
Of corn-sacks and of household goods, 
Choked every roaring gate. 










HISTORICAL FORMS. 


2H,j 


Now, from the rock Tarpeian, 

Could the wan burghers spy 
The line of blazing villages 
Red in the midnight sky. 

The fathers of the city, 

They sat all night and day, 

For every hour some horseman came 
With tidings of dismay. 

To eastward and to westward 
Have spread the Tuscan bands, 

Nor house, nor fence, nor dovecote 
In Crustumerium stands. 

Yerbenna down to Ostia 
Hath wasted all the plain ; 

Astur hath storm’d Janiculum, 

And the stout guards are slain. 

I wis, in all the Senate, 

There was no heart so bold 
But sore it ached, and fast it beat, 

When that ill news was told. 
Forthwith up rose the consul, 

Up rose the fathers all; 

In haste they girded up their gowns, 
And hied them to the wall. 

They held a council standing, 

Before the river-gate; 

Short time was there, ye may well guess, 
For musing or debate. 

Out spake the consul roundly : 

“ The bridge must straight go down ; 
For, since Janiculum is lost, 

Naught else can save the town.” 

Just then a scout came flying, 

All wild with haste and fear: 

To arms ! to arms ! sir consul— 

Lars Porsena is here.” 

On the low hills to westward 
The consul fix’d his eye, 

And saw the swarthy storm of dust 
Rise fast along the sky. 

And nearer fast and nearer 
Doth the red whirlwind come; 

And louder still, and still more loud, 
From underneath that rolling cloud, 

Is heard the trumpet’s war-note proud, 
The trampling and the hum. 

And plainly and more plainly 
Now through the gloom appears, 


Far to left and far to right, 

In broken gleams of dark-blue light, 

The long array of helmets bright, 

The long array of spears. 

And plainly and more plainly, 

Above that glimmering line, 

I Now might ye see the banners 
Of twelve fair cities shine ; 

But the banner of proud Clusium 
Was highest of them all— 

The terror of the Umbrian, 

The terror of the Gaul. 

And plainly and more plainly 
Now might the burghers know, 

By port and vest, by horse and crest, 

Each warlike Lucumo: 

! There Cilnius of Arretium 
On his fleet roan was seen ; 

And Astur of the fourfold shield, 

Girt with the brand none else may 
wield; 

Tolumnius with the belt of gold, 

And dark Yerbenna from the hold 
By reedy Thrasymene. 

Fast by the royal standard, 

O’erlooking all the war, 

Lars Porsena of Clusium 
I Sat in his ivory car. 

By the right wheel rode Mamilius 
Prince of the Latian name ; 

And by the left false Sextus, 

That wrought the deed of shame. 

But when the face of Sextus 
Was seen among the foes, 

1 A yell that rent the firmament 
From all the town arose. 

On the housetops was no woman 
But spat toward him and hiss’d, 

[ No child but scream’d out curses, 

And shook its little fist. 

But the consul’s brow was sad, 

And the consul’s speech was low, 

And darkly look’d he at the wall, 

And darkly at the foe : 

“ Their van will be upon us 
Before the bridge goes down ; 

And if they once may win the bridge. 
What hope to save the town ?” 








286 


FIRESIDE ENCYCLOPAEDIA OF POETR Y. 


Then out spake brave Horatius, 

The captain of the gate : 

“ To every man upon this earth 
Death cometh soon or late. 

And how can man die better 
Than facing fearful odds 

For the ashes of his fathers 
And the temples of his gods ? 

“ And for the tender mother 
Who dandled him to rest, 

And for the wife who nurses 
His baby at her breast, 

And for the holy maidens 
Who feed the eternal flame, 

To save them from false Sextus 
That wrought the deed of shame ? 

u Hew down the bridge, sir consul, 
With all the speed ye may; 

I, with two more to help me, 

Will hold the foe in play. 

In yon strait path a thousand 
May well be stopp’d by three. 

Now who will stand on either hand, 
And keep the bridge with me?” 

Then out spake Spurius Lartius— 

A Rainnian proud was he : 

“Lo, I will stand at thy right hand, 
And keep the bridge with thee.” 

And out spake strong Herminius— 
Of Titian blood was he : 

“ I will abide on thy left side, 

And keep the bridge with thee.” 

“ Horatius,” quoth the consul, 

“ As thou sayest, so let it be.” 

And straight against that great array 
Went forth the dauntless three. 

For Romans in Rome’s quarrel 
Spared neither land nor gold, 

Nor son nor wife, nor limb nor life, 

In the brave days of old. 

Then none was for a party— 

Then all were for the state ; 

Then the great man help’d the poor, 
And the poor man loved the great; 

Then lands were fairly portion’d ; 
Then spoils were fairly sold : 

The Romans were like brothers 
In the brave days of old. 


j Now Roman is to Roman 
More hateful than a foe, 

And the tribunes beard the high, 

And the fathers grind the low. 

; As we wax hot in faction, 

In battle we wax cold ; 

I Wherefore men fight not as they fought 
In the brave days of old. 

Now while the three were tightening 
Their harness on their backs, 

The consul was the foremost man 
To take in hand an axe; 

And fathers, mix’d with commons, 

Seized hatchet, bar, and crow, 

And smote upon the planks above, 

And loosed the props below. 

i Meanwhile the Tuscan army, 

Right glorious to behold, 

Came flashing back the noonday light, 
Rank behind rank, like surges bright 
Of a broad sea of gold. 

Four hundred trumpets sounded 
A peal of warlike glee, 

As that great host with measured tread, 
And spears advanced, and ensigns spread. 
Roll’d slowly toward the bridge’s head, 
Where stood the dauntless three. 

! The three stood calm and silent, 

And look’d upon the foes, 

And a great shout of laughter 
From all the vanguard rose : 

And forth three chiefs came spurring 
Before that deep array ; 

To earth they sprang, their swords they 
drew, 

And lifted high their shields, and flew 
To win the narrow way. 

Aunus, from green Tifernum, 

Lord of the hill of vines: 

And Seius, whose eight hundred slaves 
Sicken in Ilva’s mines ; 

And Picus, long to Clusium 
Vassal in peace and war, 

Who led to fight his Umbrian powers 
From that gray crag, where, girt with 
towers, 

The fortress of Nequinum lowers 
O’er the pale waves of Nar. 











HISTORIC A L ROMMS. 


287 


8tout Lartius hurl’d down Aunus 
Iuto the stream beneath ; 

Herminius struck at Seius, 

And clove him to the teeth ; 

At Picus brave Horatius 
Darted one fiery thrust, 

And the proud Umbrian’s gilded arms 
Clash’d in the bloody dust. 

Then Ocnus of Falerii 

Rush’d on the Roman three ; 

And Lausulus of Urgo , 

The rover of the sea ; 

And Aruns of Yolsinium, 

Who slew r the great wild boar— 

The great wild boar that had his den 
Amidst the reeds of Cosa’s fen, 

And wasted fields, and slaughter’d men, 
Along Albinia’s shore. 

Herminius smote down Aruns ; 

Lartius laid Ocnus low'; 

Right to the heart of Lausulus 
Horatius sent a blow'. 

“ Lie there,” he cried, “ fell pirate ! 

No more, aghast and pale, 

From Ostia’s walls the crow d shall mark 
The track of thy destroying bark. 

No more Campania’s hinds shall fly 
To w'oods and caverns w'lien they spy 
Thy tlirice-accursfed sail.” 

But now no sound of laughter 
Was heard among the foes. 

A w ild and wrathful clamor 
From all the vanguard rose. 

Six spears’ lengths from the entrance 
Halted that deep array, 

And for a space no man came forth 
To win the narrow way. 

But, hark ! the cry is Astur : 

And lo ! the ranks divide; 

And the great lord of Luna 
Comes with his stately stride. 

Upon his ample shoulders 
Clangs loud the fourfold shield, 

And in his hand he shakes the brand 
Which none but he can w ield. 

He smiled on those bold Romans 
A smile serene and high ; 

He eyed the flinching Tuscans, 

And scorn was in his eye. 


I Quoth he, “ The she-wolf’s litter 
] Stand savagely at bay; 

But will ye dare to follow, 

If Astur clears the w T ay?” 

Then, wdiirling up his broadsword 
With both hands to the height, 

He rush’d against Horatius, 

And smote with all his might. 

With shield and blade Horatius 
Right deftly turn’d the blow. 

The blow, though turn’d, came yet to* 
nigh, 

It miss’d his helm, but gash’d his thigh — 

The Tuscans raised a joyful cry 
To see the red blood flow'. 

He reel’d, and on Herminius 
He lean’d one breathing space ; 

Then, like a w'ild-cat mad with wounds. 
Sprang right at Astur’s face. 

Through teeth, and skull, and helmet, 

So fierce a thrust he sped, 

, The good sword stood a hand-breadth out 
Behind the Tuscan’s head. 

And the great lord of Luna 
Fell at that deadly stroke, 

As falls on Mount Alvernus 
A thunder-smitten oak. 

Far o’er the crashing forest 
The giant arms lie spread ; 

And the pale augurs, muttering low. 

Gaze on the blasted head. 

On Astur’s throat Horatius 
Right firmly press’d his heel, 

And thrice and four times tugg’d amain, 
Ere he wrench’d out the steel, 
j “And see,” he cried, “the welcome, 

Fair guests, that w r ait you here ! 

What noble Lucumo comes next 
To taste our Roman cheer ?” 

I But at his haughty challenge 
A sullen murmur ran, 

Mingled with wrath, and shame, and 
dread, 

Along that glittering van. 

There lack’d not men of prowess, 

Nor men of lordly race; 

For all Etruria’s noblest 
I Were round the fatal place. 









‘.’68 


FIRESIDE ENCYCLOPAEDIA OF POETRY. 


But all Etruria’s noblest 
Felt their hearts sink to see 
On the earth the bloody corpses, 

In the path the dauntless three, 

And from the ghastly entrance, 

Where those bold Romans stood, 

All shrank—like boys who, unaware. 
Ranging the woods to start a hare, 
Come to the mouth of the dark lair 
Where, growling low, a fierce old bear 
Lies amidst bones and blood. 

Was none who would be foremost 
To lead such dire attack : 

But those behind cried “ Forward !” 

And those before cried “ Back !” 
And backward now, and forward, 
Wavers the deep array ; 

And on the tossing sea of steel 
To and fro the standards reel 
And the victorious trumpet-peal 
Dies fitfully away. 

Yet one man for one moment 
Strode out before the crowd ; 

Well known was he to all the three, 
And they gave him greeting loud : 

“ Now welcome, welcome, Sextus ! 

Now welcome to tliy home ! 

Why dost thou stay, and turn away ? 
Here lies the road to Rome.” 

Thrice look’d he at the city; 

Thrice look'd he at the dead ; 

And thrice came on in fury, 

And thrice turn'd back in dread; 
And, white with fear and hatred, 
Scowl’d at the narrow way 
Where, wallowing in a pool of blood, 
The bravest Tuscans lay. 

But meanwhile axe and lever 
Have manfully been plied; 

And now the bridge hangs tottering 
Above the boiling tide. 

“Come back, come back, Horatius !” 

Loud cried the fathers all— 

‘ Back, Lartius ! back, Herminius! 
Back, ere the ruin fall!” 

Back darted Spurius Lartius ; 

Herminius darted back; 

And, as they pass’d, beneath their feet 
They felt the timbers crack. 


But when they turn’d their faces, 

And on the farther shore 
Saw brave Horatius stand alone, 

They would have cross’d once more 

But with a crash like thunder 
Fell everv loosen’d beam, 

And, like a dam, the mighty wreck 
Lay right athwart the stream ; 

And a long shout of triumph 
Rose from the walls of Rome, 

As to the highest turret-tops 
Was splash’d the yellow foam. 

And like a horse unbroken, 

When first he feels the rein. 

The furious river struggled hard, 

And toss’d his tawny mane, 

And burst the curb, and bounded, 
Rejoicing to be free; 

And whirling down, in fierce career, 
Battlement, and plank, and pier, 
Rush'd headlong to the sea. 

Alone stood brave Horatius, 

But constant still in mind— 

Thrice thirty thousand foes before. 
And the broad flood behind. 

“ Down with him !” cried false Sextus, 
With a smile on his pale face; 

“ Now yield thee,” cried Lars Porsena. 
“Now yield thee to our grace!” 

Round turn'd he, as not deigning 
Those craven ranks to see; 

Naught spake he to Lars Porsena, 

To Sextus naught spake he; 

But he saw on Palatinus 
The white porch of his home; 

And he spake to the noble river 
That rolls by the towers of Rome: 

j “ O Tiber! father Tiber! 

To whom the Romans pray, 

A Roman’s life, a Roman’s arms, 
Take thou in charge this day! ” 

So he spake, and, speaking, sheathed 
The good sword by his side, 

And, with his harness on his back, 
Plunged headlong in the tide. 

No sound of joy or sorrow 
Was heard from either bank, 





HIS TO RICA L POEMS. 


2 89 


But friends and foes in dumb surprise, 
With parted lips and straining eyes, 

Stood gazing where he sank; 

And when above the surges 
They saw his crest appear, 

All Rome sent forth a rapturous cry, 

And even the ranks of Tuscany 
Could scarce forbear to cheer. 

But fiercely ran the current, 

Swollen high by months of rain, 

And fast his blood was flowing; 

And he was sore in pain, 

And heavy with his armor, 

And spent with changing blows; 

And oft they thought him sinking, 

But still again he rose. 

Never, I ween, did swimmer 
In such an evil case, 

Struggle through such a raging flood 
Safe to the landing-place; 

But his limbs were borne up bravely 
By the brave heart within, 

And our good father Tiber 
Bare bravely up his chin. 

“ Curse on him!” quoth false Sextus,— 

“ Will not the villain drown ? 

But for this stay, ere close of day 
We should have sack’d the town!” 

“ Heaven help him !” quoth Lars Porsena, 
“And bring him safe to shore; 

For such a gallant feat of arms 
Was never seen before.” 

And now he feels the bottom ; 

Now on dry earth he stands; 

Now round him throng the fathers 
To press his gory hands; 

And now, with shouts and clapping, 

And noise of weeping loud, 

He enters through the river-gate, 

Borne by the joyous crowd. 

They gave him of the corn-land, 

That was of public right, 

As much as two strong oxen 
Could plough from morn till night; 

And they made a molten image, 

And set it up on high— 

And there it stands unto this day 
To witness if I lie. 

19 


It stands in the comitium, 

i 

Plain for all folk to see,— 

; ’ 

Horatius in his harness, 

Halting upon one knee; 

And underneath is written, 

In letters all of gold, 

How valiantly he kept the bridge 

In the brave days of old. 

And still his name sounds stirring 
Unto the men of Rome, 

As the trumpet-blast that cries to them 
To charge the Volscian home; 

And wives still pray to Juno 
For boys with hearts as bold 
As his who kept the bridge so well 
In the brave days of old. 

And in the nights of winter, 

When the cold north winds blow, 

, And the long howling of the wolves 
Is heard amidst the snow; 

When round the lonely cottage 
Roars loud the tempest’s din, 

And the good logs of Algidus 
Roar louder yet within ; 

When the oldest cask is open’d, 

And the largest lamp is lit; 

When the chestnuts glow in the embers, 
And the kid turns on the spit; 

When young and old in circle 
Around the firebrands close; 

When the girls are weaving baskets, 

And the lads are shaping bows; 

When the goodman mends his armor, 
And trims his helmet’s plume; 

When the goodwife’s shuttle merrily 
Goes flashing through the loom; 

With weeping and with laughter 
Still is the story told, 

How well Horatius kept the bridge 
In the brave days of old. 

Thomas Babinoton' Macaulay. 


Ulysses. 

It little profits that an idle king, 

By this still hearth, among these barren 
crags, 

Matched with an aged wife, I mete and dole 
Unequal laws unto a savage race, 







FIRESIDE ENCYCLOPAEDIA OF POETRY. 


290 


That hoard, and sleep, and feed, and know 
not me. 

I cannot rest from travel: I will drink 
Life to the lees: all times I have enjoy’d 
Greatly, have suffer’d greatly, both with 
those 

That loved me, and alone; on shore, and 
when 

Thro’ scudding drifts the rainy Hyades 
Yext the dim sea: I am become a name; 
For always roaming with a hungry heart 
Much have 1 seen and known ; cities of 
men 

And manners, climates, councils, govern¬ 
ments, 

Myself not least, but honor’d of them 
all; 

And drunk delight of battle with my peers, 
Far on the ringing plains of windy Troy. 

I am a part of all that I have met; 

Yet all experience is an arch wherethro’ 
Gleams that untravell’d world, whose mar¬ 
gin fades 

Forever and forever when I move. 

How dull it is to pause, to make an end, 

To rust unburnish’d, not to shine in use! 
As tho’ to breathe were life. Life piled on 
life 

Were all too little, and of one to me 
Little remains: but every hour is saved 
From that eternal silence, something more, 
A bringer of new things ; and vile it were 
For some three suns to store and hoard 
myself, 

And this gray spirit yearning in desire 
To follow knowledge like a shining star, 
Beyond the utmost bound of human 
thought. 

This is my son, mine own Telemachus, 
To whom I leave the sceptre and the isle— 
Well loved of me, discerning to fulfil 
This labor, by slow prudence to make mild 
A rugged people, and thro’ soft degrees 
Subdue them to the useful and the good. 
Most blameless is he, centred in the sphere 
Of common duties, decent not to fail 
In offices of tenderness, and pay 
Meet adoration to my household gods, 
When I am gone. He works his work, I 
mine. 

There lies the port: the vessel puffs her 
sail: 


There gloom the dark broad seas. My 
mariners, 

Souls that have toil’d, and wrought, and 
thought with me— 

That ever with a frolic welcome took 
i The thunder and the sunshine, and opposed 

Free hearts, free foreheads—you and I are 
old; 

Old age hath yet his honor and his toil; 

Death closes all: but something ere the 
end, 

: Some work of noble note, may yet be 
done, 

Not unbecoming men that strove with 
Gods. 

The lights begin to twinkle from the 
rocks: 

: The long day wanes: the slow moon climbs: 
the deep 

Moans round with many voices. Come, my 
friends, 

’Tis not too late to seek a newer world, 
i Push off, and sitting well in order smite 

The sounding furrows; for my purpose 
holds 

To sail beyond the sunset, and the baths 
I Of all the western stars, until I die. 

It may be that the gulfs will wash us down : 

It may be we shall touch the Happy Isles, 

And see the great Achilles, whom we 
knew. 

! Tho’ much is taken, much abides; and tho’ 

AVe are not now that strength which in old 
days 

Moved earth and heaven; that which we 
are, we are; 

i One equal temper of heroic hearts, 

: Made weak by time and fate, but strong in 
will 

To strive, to seek, to find, and not to yield. 

Alfred Tennyson. 

Antony and Cleopatra. 

I am dying, Egypt, dying, 

Ebbs the crimson life-tide fast, 

And the dark Plutonian shadows 
Gather on the evening blast; 

Let thine arms, O Queen, enfold me, 
Hush thy sobs and bow thine ear; 

Listen to the great heart-secrets, 

Thou, and thou alone, must hear. 




11 IS TO RICA L l ‘OR MS. 


21)1 


Though my scarr’d and veteran legions 
Bear their eagles high no more, 

And my wreck’d and scatter’d galleys 
Strew dark Actium’s fatal shore* 
Though no glittering guards surround me, 
Prompt to do their master’s will, 

I must perish like a Roman, 

Die the great Triumvir still. 

Let not Caesar’s servile minions 
Mock the lion thus laid low; 

’Twas no foeman’s arm that fell’d him, 
’Twas his own that struck the blow; 

His who, pillow’d on thy bosom, 

Turn’d aside from glory’s ray, 

His who, drunk with thy caresses. 

Madly threw a world away. 

Should the base plebeian rabble 
Dare assail my name at Rome, 

Where my noble spouse, Octavia, 

Weeps within her widow’d home, 

Seek her; say the gods bear witness— 
Altars, augurs, circling wings— 

That her blood, with mine commingled, 
Yet shall mount the throne of kings. 

As for thee, star-eyed Egyptian, 

Glorious sorceress of the Nile, 

Light the path to Stygian horrors 
With the splendors of thy smile. 

Give the Csesar crowns and arches, 

Let his brow the laurel twine; 

I can scorn the Senate’s triumphs, 
Triumphing in love like thine. 

I am dying, Egypt, dying; 

Hark ! the insulting foeman’s cry. 

They are coming! quick, my falchion, 

Let me front them ere I die. 

Ah ! no more amid the battle 
Shall my heart exulting swell; 
fsis and Osiris guard thee! 

Cleopatra, Rome, farewell! 

William Haines Lytle. 


Harmosan, the last and boldest the invader 
to defy, 

Captive, overborne by numbers, they were 
bringing forth to die. 

Then exclaim’d that noble captive: “ Lo, 
I perish in my thirst; 

Give me but one drink of water, and let 
then arrive the worst!” 

In his hand he took the goblet: but a while 
the draught forbore, 

Seeming doubtfully the purpose of the 
foeman to explore. 

Well might then have paused the bravest 
—for around him angry foes 

With a hedge of naked weapons did that 
lonely man enclose. 

“ But what fearest thou?” cried the caliph, 
“ is it, friend, a secret blow ? 

Fear it not! our gallant Moslems no such 
treacherous dealing know. 

“ Thou may’st quench thy thirst securely, 
for thou shalt not die before 

Thou hast drunk that cup of water—this 
reprieve is thine—no more!” 

Quick the satrap dash’d the goblet down 
to earth with ready hand, 

And the liquid sank for ever, lost amid the 
burning sand. 

“ Thou hast said that mine my life is, till 
the water of that cup 

I have drain’d ; then bid thy servants that 
spill’d water gather up !” 

For a moment stood the caliph as by doubt¬ 
ful passions stirr’d— 

Then exclaim’d, “ For ever sacred, must 
remain a monarch’s word. 


Harm os an. 

Now the third and fatal conflict for the 
Persian throne was done, 

And the Moslem’s fiery valor had the 
crowning victory won. 


“ Bring another cup, and straightway to 
the noble Persian give : 

Drink, I said before, and perish—now I 
bid thee drink and live !” 

Kichard Chenevix Trench. 






292 


FIRESIDE ENCYCLOPAEDIA OF POETRY. 


Dirge of alarig the Visigoth. 

When I am dead, no pageant train 
Shall waste their sorrows at my bier, 

Nor worthless pomp of homage vain 
Stain it with hypocritic tear; 

For I will die as I did live, 

Nor take the boon I cannot give. 

Ye shall not raise a marble bust 
Upon the spot where I repose; 

Ye shall not fawn before my dust 
In hollow circumstance of woes : 

Nor sculptured clay, with lying breath, 
Insult the clay that moulds beneath. 

Ye shall not pile, with servile toil, 

Your monuments upon my breast, 

Nor yet within the common soil 

Lay down the wreck of Power to rest 
Where man can boast that he has trod 
On him that was “ the scourge of God.’’ 

But ye the mountain stream shall turn, 
And lay its secret channel bare, 

And hollow, for your sovereign’s urn, 

A resting-place for ever there: 

Then bid its everlasting springs 
Flow back upon the King of Kings ; 

And never be the secret said 
Until the deep give up his dead. 

Mv gold and silver ye shall fling 

Back to the clods, that gave them birth;— 
The captured crowns of many a king, 

The ransom of a conquered earth: 

For e’en though dead will I control 
The trophies of the Capitol. 

But when beneath the mountain tide 
Ye’ve laid your monarch down to rot, 

Ye shall not rear upon its side 
Pillar or mound to mark the spot; 

For long enough the world has shook 
Beneath the terrors of my look; 

And now that I have run my race, 

The astonished realms shall rest a space. 

My course was like a river deep, 

And from the northern hills I burst, 
Across the world in wrath to sweep, 

And where I went the spot was cursed, 


Nor blade of grass again was seen 
Where Alaric and his hosts had been. 

See how their haughty barriers fail 
Beneath the terror of the Goth, 

Their iron-breasted legions quail 
Before my ruthless sabaoth, 

And low the Queen of empires kneels. 

And grovels at my chariot-wheels. 

Not for myself did I ascend 
In judgment my triumphal car; 

’Twas God alone on high did send 
The avenging Scythian to the war, 

To shake abroad, with iron hand, 

The appointed scourge of his command. 

With iron hand that scourge I reared 
O’er guilty king and guilty realm ; 
Destruction was the ship I steered, 

And vengeance sat upon the helm, 
When, launched in fury on the flood, 

I ploughed my way through seas of blood, 
And in the stream their hearts had spilt 
Washed out the long arrears of guilt. 

Across the everlasting Alp 

I poured the torrent of my powers, 

And feeble Caesars shrieked for help 

In vain within their seven-hilled towers. 
I quenched in blood the brightest gem 
That glittered in their diadem, 

And struck a darker, deeper dye 
In the purple of their majesty. 

And bade my northern banners shine 
Upon the conquered Palatine. 

My course is run, my errand done: 

I go to Him from whom I came; 

But never yet shall set the sun 
Of glory that adorns my name; 

And Koman hearts shall long be sick, 
When men shall think of Alaric. 

My course is run, my errand done— 

But darker ministers of fate, 

Impatient round the eternal throne, 

And in the caves of vengeance, wait; 
And soon mankind shall blench away 
Before the name of Attila. 

Edward Everett. 







HISTORICAL POEMS. 


293 


CRESCENTIUS. 

I look’d upon his brow; no sign 
Of guilt or fear was there; 

He stood as proud by that death-shrine 
As even o’er despair 
He had a power. In his eye 
There wgs a quenchless energy, 

A spirit that could dare 
The deadliest form that death could take, 
And dare it for the daring’s sake. 

He stood, the fetters on his hand; 

He raised them haughtily; 

And had that grasp been on the brand, 

It could not wave on high 
With freer pride than it waved now. 
Around he look’d with changeless brow 
On many a torture nigh; 

The rack, the chain, the axe, the wheel, 
And, worst of all, his own red steel. 

I saw him once before; he rode 
Upon a coal-black steed, 

And tens of thousands throng’d the road, 
And bade their warrior speed. 

His helm, his breast-plate, were of gold, 
And graved with many a dent, that told 
Of many a soldier’s deed ; 

The sun shone on his sparkling mail, 

And danced his snow-plume on the gale. 

But now he stood chain’d and alone, 

The headsman by his side, 

The plume, the helm, the charger gone; 

The sword which had defied 
The mightiest lay broken near; 

And yet no sign or sound of fear 
Came from that lip of pride, 

And never king’s or conqueror's brow 
Wore higher look than his did now. 

He bent beneath the headsman’s stroke 
With an uncover’d eye; 

A wild shout from the numbers broke 
Who throng’d to see him die. 

It was a people’s loud acclaim, 

The voice of anger and of shame, 

A nation’s funeral cry, 

Kome’s wail above her only son, 

Her patriot, and her latest one. 

Ljetitia Elizabeth Landon Maclean. 


The Lamentation of Don 
Roderick. 

The hosts of Don Rodrigo were scatter’d 
in dismay, 

When lost was the eighth battle, nor heart 
nor hope had they; 

He, when he saw that field was lost, and 
all his hope was flown, 

He turn’d him from his flying host, and 
took his way alone. 

His horse was bleeding, blind, and lame— 
he could no farther go ; 

Dismounted, without path or aim, the king 
stepp’d to and fro : 

It was a sight of pity to look on Roderick, 

For, sore athirst and hungry, he stagger’d 
faint and sick. 

All stain’d and strew’d with dust and blood, 
like to some smouldering brand 

Pluck’d from the flame, Rodrigo show’d: 
his sword was in his hand, 

But it was hack’d into a saw of dark and 
purple tint; 

His jewell’d mail had many a flaw, his 
helmet many a dint. 

He climb’d unto a hill-top, the highest he 
could see— 

Thence all about of that wide rout his 
last long look took he ; 

He saw his royal banners, where they lay 
drench’d and torn, 

He heard the cry of victory, the Arab’s 
shout of scorn. 

He look’d for the brave captains that led 
the hosts of Spain, 

But all were fled except the dead, and who 
could count the slain ? 

Where’er his eye could wander, all bloody 
was the plain, 

And, while thus he said, the tears he shed 
ran down his cheeks like rain :— 

“ Last night I was the king of Spain—to¬ 
day no king am I; 

Last night fair castles held my train—to¬ 
night where shall I lie? 







294 


FIRESIDE ENCYCLOPAEDIA OF POETRY. 


Last night a hundred pages did serve me j 
on the knee,— 

To-night not one I call mine own:—not 
one pertains to me. 

“ Oh, luckless, luckless was the hour, and 
cursed was the day, 

When I was born to have the power of ’ 
this great seniory! 

Unhappy me that I should see the sun go j 
down to-night! 

O Death, why now so slow art thou, why 
fearest thou to smite?” 

(From the Spanish.) 

John Gibson Lockhart. 

The Bard. 

A Pindakic Ode. 

“ Ruin seize thee, ruthless King! 

Confusion on thy banners wait! 

Tho’ fann’d by Conquest’s crimson wing, 

They mock the air with idle state. 

Helm, nor hauberk’s twisted mail, 

Nor e’en thy virtues, tyrant, shall avail 
To save thy secret soul from nightly fears, 
From Cambria’s curse, from Cambria’s 
tears!” 

—Such were the sounds that o’er the 
crested pride 

Of the first Edward scatter’d wild dis¬ 
may, 

As down the steep of Snowdon’s shaggy 
side 

He wound with toilsome march his long 
array. 

Stout Glo’ster stood aghast in speechless 
trance; 

“ To arms !” cried Mortimer, and couch’d 
his quiv’ring lance. 

On a rock whose haughty brow 
Frowns o’er old Conway’s foaming flood, 

Robed in the sable garb of woe, 

With haggard eyes the poet stood : 

(Loose his beard and hoary hair 
Stream’d like a meteor to the troubled air), 
And with a master’s hand and prophet’s 
fire 

Struck the deep sorrows of his lyre: 

“ Hark, how each giant oak and desert cave 

Sighs to the torrent’s awful voice be¬ 
neath 1 J 


O’er thee,O King! their hundred arms they 
wave, 

Revenge on thee in hoarser murmurs 
breathe; 

Vocal no more, since Cambria’s fatal day, 
To high-born Hoel’s harp, or soft Llewel¬ 
lyn’s lay. 

“ Cold is Cadwallo’s tongue, 

That hush’d the stormy main : 

Brave Urien sleeps upon his craggy bed: 

Mountains, ye mourn in vain 
Modred, whose magic song 
Made huge Plinlimmon bow his cloud-topt 
head. 

On dreary Arvon’s shore they lie 
Smear’d with gore and ghastly pale: 

Far, far aloof the affrighted ravens sail; 

The famish’d eagle screams, and passes 
by. 

Dear lost companions of my tuneful art, 

Dear as the light that visits these sad 
eyes, 

Dear as the ruddy drops that warm my 
heart, 

Ye died amidst your dying country’s 
cries— 

No more I weep. They do not sleep. 

On yonder cliffs, a grisly band, 

I see them sit; they linger yet, 

Avengers of their native land: 

With me in dreadful harmony they join, 
And weave with bloody hands the tissue 
of thy line. 

“ Weave the warp and weave the woof, 

The winding-sheet of Edward’s race: 
Give ample room and verge enough 

The characters of hell to trace. 

Mark the year and mark the night 
When Severn shall re-echo with affright 
The shrieks of death thro’ Berkley’s roof 
that ring, 

Shrieks of an agonizing king! 

She-wolf of France, with unrelenting 
fangs, 

That tear’st the bowels of thy mangled 
mate, 

From thee be born, who o’er thy country 
hangs 

The scourge of Heaven ! What terrori 
round him waitl 











HISTORICAL POEMS. 


2D5 


Amazement in his van, with flight com¬ 
bined, 

And Sorrow’s faded form, and Solitude 
behind. 

“Mighty victor, mighty lord, 

Low on his funeral couch he lies ! 

No pitying heart, no eye, afford 
A tear to grace his obsequies. 

Is the sable warrio>- fled? 

Thy sou is gone. He rests among the 
dead. 

The swarm that in thy noontide beam 
were born ? 

—Gone to salute the rising morn. 

Fair laughs the Morn, and soft the zephyr 
blows, 

While proudly riding o’er the azure 
realm 

In gallant trim the gilded vessel goes : 
Youth on the prow, and Pleasure at the 
helm: 

Regardless of the sweeping Whirlwind’s 
sway, 

That hush’d in grim repose expects his 
evening prey. 

“ Fill high the sparkling bowl, 

The rich repast prepare; 

Reft of a crown, he yet may share the 
feast: 

Close by the regal chair 

Fell Thirst and Famine scowl 
A baleful smile upon their baffled 
guest. 

Heard ye the din of battle bray, 

Lance to lance, and horse to horse? 
Long years of havoc urge their destined 
course, 

And thro’ the kindred squadrons mow 
their way. 

Ye towers of Julius, London’s lasting 
shame, 

With many a foul and midnight murder 
fed, 

Revere his Consort’s faith, his Father’s 
fame, 

And spare the meek usurper’s holy head. 

Above, below, the rose of snow, 

Twined with her blushing foe, we 
spread: 

The bristled boar in infant gore 
Wallows beneath the thorny shade. 


Now, brothers, bending o’er the accursed 
loom, 

Stamp we our vengeance deep, and ratify 
his doom. 

“ Edward, lo ! to sudden fate 

(Weave we the woof. The thread is 
spun). 

Half of thy heart we consecrate. 

(The web is wove. The work is done.) 
Stay, oh, stay! nor thus forlorn 
Leave me unbless’d, unpitied, here to 
mourn: 

In yon bright track that fires the western 
skies 

They melt, they vanish from my eyes. 

But oh, what solemn scenes on Snowdon’s 
height 

Descending slow their glittering skirts 
unroll ? 

Visions of glory, spare my aching sight! 

Ye unborn ages, crowd not on my soul! 
No more our long-lost Arthur we bewail:— 
All hail, ye geuuine kings! Britannia's 
issue, hail! 

“ Girt with many a baron bold 
Sublime their starry fronts they rear ; 

And gorgeous dames, and statesmen old 
In bearded majesty, appear. 

In the midst a form divine! 

Her eye proclaims her of the Briton-line: 

! Her lion-port, her awe-commanding face 
Attemper’d sweet to virgin grace, 
i What strings symphonious tremble in the 
air, 

What strains of vocal transport round 
her play! 

Hear from the grave, great Taliessin, 
hear; 

They breathe a soul to animate thy clay. 
Bright Rapture calls, and soaring as she 
sings, | 

Waves in the eye of Heaven her many- 
color’d wings. 

“ The verse adorn again 

Fierce War and faithful Love, 

And Truth severe by fairy Fiction drest. 

In buskin’d measures move 
Pale Grief, and pleasing Pain, 

With Horror, tyrant of the throbbing 
breast. 











296 


FIRESIDE ENCYCLOPEDIA OF POE LEY. 


A voice as of the cherub-choir 
Gales from blooming Eden bear, 

And distant warblings lessen on my ear 
That lost in long futurity expire. 

Fond impious man, think’st thou yon san¬ 
guine cloud 

Raised by thy breath has quench’d the 
orb of day? 

To-morrow he repairs the golden flood 
And warms the nations with redoubled 
ray. 

Enough for me: with joy I see 
The diff’rent doom our fates assign : 

Be thine Despair and sceptred Care; 

To triumph and to die are mine.” 

—He spoke, and headlong from the moun¬ 
tain’s height 

Deep in the roaring tide he plunged to 
endless night. 

Thomas Gray. 

Bannockburn. 

Scots, wha hae wi’ Wallace bled— 
Scots, wham Bruce has aften led— 
Welcome to your gory bed, 

Or to victorie! 

Now’s the day and now’s the hour; 

See the front o’ battle lower; 

See approach proud Edward’s power— 
Chains and slaverie! 

Wha will be a traitor knave ? 

Wha can fill a coward’s grave ? 

Wha sae base as be a slave ? 

Let him turn and flee I 

Wha for Scotland’s king and law 
Freedom’s sword will strongly draw, 
Freeman stand or freeman fa’— 

Let him on wi’ me ! 

By oppression’s woes and pains! 

By your sons in servile chains ! 

We will drain our dearest veins, 

But they shall be free! 

Lay the proud usurpers low ! 

Tyrants fall in every foe! 

Liberty’s in every blow ! 

Let us do, or die! 

Robert Burns. 


' A VERY MOURNFUL BALLAD. 

The Moorish king rides up and down 
Through Granada’s royal town; 

From Elvira’s gates to those 
Of Bivarambla on he goes. 

Woe is me, Alhama! 

Letters to the monarch tell 
How Alhama’s city fell: 

In the fire the scroll he threw, 

And the messenger he slew. 

Woe is me, Alhama! 

He quits his mule, and mounts his horse, 
And through the street directs his course 
Through the street of Zacatin 
To the Alhambra spurring in. 

Woe is me, Alhama! 

When the Alhambra walls he gain’d, 

On the moment he ordain’d 
j That the trumpet straight should sound 
With the silver clarion round. 

Woe is me, Alhama! 

And when the hollow drums of war 
Beat the loud alarm afar, 

That the Moors of town and plain 
Might answer to the martial strain, 

Woe is me, Albania ! 

Then the Moors, by this aware 
That bloody Mars recall’d them there, 
One by one, and two by two, 

To a mighty squadron grew. 

Woe is me, Alhama! 

Out then spake an aged Moor 
i In these words the king before: 

“ Wherefore call on us, O king? 

What may mean this gathering?” 

Woe is me, Alhama! 

“Friends! ye have, alas! to know 
| Of a most disastrous blow, 

That the Christians, stern and bold, 

Have obtain’d Alhama’s hold.” 

Woe is me, Alhama! 

Out then spake old Alfaqui, 

With his beard so white to see, 

“Good king, thou art justly served, 

Good king, this thou hast deserved. 

Woe is me, Alhama! 








HISTORICAL POEMS. 


29 ? 


“ By thee were slain, in evil hour, 

The Abencerrage, Granada’s flower ; 

And strangers were received by thee 
Of Cordova the chivalry. 

Woe is me, Alhama! 

“ And for this, O king! is sent 
On thee a double chastisement, 

Thee and thine, thy crown and realm, 
One last wreck shall overwhelm. 

Woe is me, Alhama! 

“ He who holds uo laws in awe, 

He must perish by the law; 

And Granada must be won, 

And thyself with her undone.” 

Woe is me, Alhama I 

Fire flash’d from out the old Moor’s eyes, 
The monarch’s wrath began to rise, 
Because he answer’d, and because 
He spake exceeding well of laws. 

Woe is me, Alhama! 

“ There is no law to say such things 
As may disgust the ear of kings:”— 
Thus, snorting with his choler, said 
The Moorish king, and doom’d him dead. 
Woe is me, Alhama! 

Moor Alfaqui! Moor Alfaqui! 

Though thy beard so hoary be, 

The king hath sent to have thee seized, 
For Albania’s loss displeased. 

Woe is me, Alhama! 

And to fix thy head upon 
High Alhambra’s loftiest stone; 

That this for thee should be the law, 

And others tremble when they saw. 

Woe is me, Alhama! 

“ Cavalier! and man of worth ! 

Let these words of mine go forth ; 

Let the Moorish monarch know, 

That to him I nothing owe : 

Woe is me, Alhama ! 

“ But on my soul Alhama weighs, 

And on my inmost spirit preys; 

And if the king his land hath lost, 

Yet others may have lost the most. 

Woe is me, Alhama ! 


I “ Sires have lost their children, wives 
Their lords, and valiant men their lives; 
One what best his love might claim 
Hath lost, another wealth or fame. 

Woe is me, Alhama! 

“ I lost a damsel in that hour, 

Of all the land the loveliest flower; 
Doubloons a hundred I would pay, 

And think her ransom cheap that day.” 
Woe is me, Alhama! 

And as these things the old Moor said, 
They sever’d from the trunk his head ; 
And to the Alhambra’s wall with speed 
’Twas carried, as the king decreed. 

Woe is me, Alhama! 

And men and infants therein weep 
' Their loss, so heavy and so deep ; 
Granada’s ladies, all she rears 
Within her walls, burst into tears. 

Woe is me, Alhama ! 

And from the windows o’er the walls 
The sable web of mourning falls; 

The king weeps as a woman o’er 
His loss, for it is much and sore. 

Woe is me, Alhama! 

(From the Spanish.) 
Lord Byron. 

THE COVENANTERS' BATTLE 
Chant. 

To battle! to battle ! 

To slaughter and strife! 

For a sad, broken Covenant 
We barter poor life. 

The great God of Judah 
Shall smite with our hand, 

And break down the idols 
That cumber the land. 

Uplift every voice 

In prayer and in song; 

Remember the battle 
Is not to the strong; 

Lo! the Ammonites thicken, 

And onward they come, 

To the vain noise of trumpet. 

Of cymbal, and drum. 













FIRESIDE ENCYCLOPAEDIA OF POETRY. 


598 


They haste to the onslaught, 

With hagbut and spear; 

They lust for a banquet 
That’s deathful and dear. 

Now horseman and footman 
Sweep down the hillside; 

They come, like fierce Pharaohs, 

To die in their pride! 

See, long plume and pennon 
Stream gay in the air! 

They are given us for slaughter,— 
Shall God’s people spare? 

Nay, nay ; lop them off, 

Friend, father, and son ; 

All earth is athirst till 
The good work be done. 

Brace tight every buckler, 

And lift high the sword, 

For biting must blades be 
That fight for the Lord. 

Remember, remember, 

How saints’ blood was shed, 

As free as the rain, and 
Homes desolate made! 

Among them ! among them! 

Unburied bones cry, 

Avenge us, or, like us, 

Faith’s true martyrs die. 

Hew! hew down the spoilers! 

Slay on, and spare none; 

Then shout forth in gladness, 

Heaven’s battle is won! 

William Motherwell. 

Make Way for Liberty. 

“ Make way for liberty !”—he cried; 
Made way for liberty, and died ! 

In arms the Austrian phalanx stood, 

A living wall, a human wood ! 

A wall, where every conscious stone 
Seem’d to its kindred thousands grown ; 

A rampart all assaults to bear, 

Till time to dust their frames should wear; 
A wood, like that enchanted grove 
In which with fiends Rinaldo strove, 
Where every silent tree possess’d 
A spirit prison’d in its breast, 


Which the first stroke of coming strife 
Would startle into hideous life; 

So dense, so still, the Austrians stood, 

A living wall, a human wood ! 

Impregnable their front appears, 

All horrent with projected spears, 

Whose polish’d points before them shine 
From flank to flank, one brilliant line, 
Bright as the breakers’ splendors run 
Along the billows, to the Sun. 

Opposed to these, a hovering band 
Contended for their native land : 

Peasants, whose new-found strength had 
broke 

From manly necks the ignoble yoke, 

And forged their fetters into swords, 

On equal terms to fight their lords : 

And what insurgent rage had gain’d. 

In many a mortal fray maintain’d ; 
Marshall’d once more at Freedom’s call. 
They came to conquer or to fall, 

Where he who conquer’d, he who fell, 

Was deem’d a dead or living Tell! 

Such virtue had that patriot breathed, 

So to the soil his soul bequeathed, 

That wheresoe’er his arrows flew, 

Heroes in his own likeness grew, 

And warriors sprang from every sod 
Which his awakening footstep trod, 

And now the work of life and death 
Hung on the passing of a breath ; 

The fire of conflict burnt within, 

The battle trembled to begin : 

Yet while the Austrians held their ground, 
Point for attack was nowhere found. 
Where’er the impatient Switzers gazed, 
The unbroken line of lances blazed ; 

That line ’twere suicide to meet, 

And perish at their tyrants’ feet,— ' 

How could they rest within their graves. 
And leave their homes the homes of slavev! 
Would they not feel their children tread 
With clanging chains above their head ? 

It must not be : this day, this hour. 
Annihilates the oppressor’s power; 

All Switzerland is in the field, 

She will not fly, she cannot yield— 

She must not fall; her better fate 
Here gives her an immortal date. 






HISTORICAL POEMS. 


299 


Few were the number she could boast; 

But every freeman was a host, 

And felt as though himself were he 
On whose sole arm hung victory. 

It did depend on one, indeed ; 

Behold him—Arnold Winkelried ! 

There sounds not to the trump of fame 
The echo of a nobler name. 

Unmark’d, he stood amid the throng, 

In rumination deep and long, 

Till you might see, with sudden grace, 

The very thought come o’er his face, 

And by the motion of his form 
Anticipate the bursting storm ; 

And by the uplifting of his brow 

Tell where the bolt would strike, and how. 


And taking many a fort, 
Furnish’d in warlike sort, 
March’d toward Agincourt 
In happy hour— 
Skirmishing day by day 
With those that stopp’d his way, 
Where the French gen’ral lay 
With all his power, 

Which in his height of pride, 
King Henry to deride, 

His ransom to provide 
To the king sending; 

Which he neglects the while, 

As from a nation vile, 

Yet, with an angry smile, 

Their fall portending. 


But ’twas no sooner thought than done, 
The field was in a moment won :—■ 

“ Make way for Liberty !” he cried, 

Then ran, with arms extended wide, 

As if his dearest friend to clasp ; 

Ten spears he swept within his grasp. 

“ Make way for Liberty !” he cried : 

Their keen points met from side to side; 
He bow’d amongst them like a tree, 

And thus made way for Liberty. 

Swift to the breach his comrades fly ; 

“ Make way for Liberty !” they cry, 

And through the Austrian phalanx dart, 
As rush’d the spears through Arnold’s 
heart; 

While, instantaneous as his fall, 

Kout, ruin, panic scatter’d all: 

An earthquake could not overthrow 
A city with a surer blow. 

Thus Switzerland again was free: 

Thus death made way for liberty ! 

James Montgomery. 

The Ballad of agincourt. 

Faik stood the wind for France 
When we our sails advance, 

Nor now to prove our chance 
Longer will tarry; 

But putting to the main, 

At Kaux, the mouth of Seine, 

With all his martial train, 

Landed King Harry. 


And turning to his men, 

Quoth our brave Henry then: 
Though they to one be ten, 

Be not amazed; 

Yet have we well begun— 
Battles so bravely won 
Have ever to the sun 
By fame been raised. 

And for myself, quoth he, 

This my full rest shall be; 
England, ne’er mourn for me, 
Nor more esteem me. 

Victor I will remain, 

Or on this earth lie slain ; 

Never shall she sustain 
Loss to redeem me. 

Poitiers and Cressy tell, 

When most their pride did swell, 
Under our swords they fell; 

No less our skill is 
Than when our grandsire great, 
Claiming the regal seat. 

By many a warlike feat 

Lopp’d the French lilies. 

The duke of York so dread 
The eager vaward led; 

With the main Henry sped, 
Amongst his henchmen. 
Excester had the rear— 

A braver man not there : 

0 Lord ! how hot they were 
On the false Frenchmen! 





300 


FIRESIDE ENCYCLOPEDIA OF POETRY. 


They now to fight are gone; 

Armor on armor shone ; 

Drum now to drum did groan— 

To hear was wonder; 

That with the cries they make 
The very earth did shake ; 

Trumpet to trumpet spake, 
Thunder to thunder. 

Well it thine age became, 

O noble Erpingham! 

Which did the signal aim 
To our hid forces; 

When, from a meadow by, 

Like a storm suddenly, 

The English archery 

Struck the French horses, 

With Spanish yew so strong, 
Arrows a cloth-vard long, 

That like to serpents stung, 
Piercing the weather; 

None from his fellow starts, 

But playing manly parts, 

And like true English hearts, 

Stuck close together. 

When down their bows they threw, 
And forth their bilbows drew. 

And on the French they flew. 

Not one was tardy : 

Arms were from shoulders sent; 
Scalps to the teeth were rent; 

Down the French peasants went; 
Our men were hardy. 

This while our noble king, 

His broadsword brandishing, 

Down the French host did ding, 

As to o’erwhelm it; 

And many a deep wound lent, 

His arms with blood besprent, 

And many a cruel dent 
Bruised his helmet. 

Glo’ster, that duke so good, 

Next of the royal blood, 

For famous England stood, 

With his brave brother—- 
Clarence, in steel so bright, 

Though but a maiden knight, 

Yet in that furious fight 
Scarce such another. 


Warwick in blood did wade ; 

Oxford the foe invade, 

And cruel slaughter made, 

Still as they ran up. 

Suffolk his axe did ply; 

Beaumont and Willoughby 
Bare them right doughtily, 

Ferrers and Fanhope. 

Upon Saint Crispin’s day 
Fought was this noble fray, 

Which fame did not delay 
To England to carry; 

Oh, when shall Englishmen 
With such acts fill a pen, 

Or England breed again 
Such a King Harry? 

Michael Drayton. 

The Ballad of Chevy-Chace. 

God prosper long our noble king, 

Our lives and safetyes all; 

A woefull hunting once there did 
In Chevy-Chace befall; 

To drive the deere with hound and horns* 
Erie Percy took his way, 

The child may rue that is unborne, 

The hunting of that day. 

The stout Erie of Northumberland 
A vow to God did make, 

His pleasure in the Scottish woods 
Three summers days to take; 

The cheefest harts in Chevy-Chace 
To kill and beare away. 

These tydings to Erie Douglas came, 

In Scottland where he lay: 

i Who sent Erie Percy present word, 

He would prevent his sport. 

1 The English Erie, not fearing that, 

Did to the woods resort, 

With fifteen hundred bow-men bold; 

All chosen men of might, 

Who knew full well in time of neede 
To avme their shafts aright. 

The gallant greyhounds swiftly ran, 

To chase the fallow deere : 

On Munday they began to hunt, 
i Ere daylight did appeare; 








HISTORIC A L POEMS. 


301 


And long before high noone they had 
An hundred fat buckes slaine ; 

Then having dined, the drovyers went 
To rouze the deare againe. 

The bow-men muster’d on the bills, 

Well able to endure; 

And all their rear, with speciall care, 

That day was guarded sure. 

The hounds ran swiftly through the woods, 
The nimble deere to take, 

That with their cryes the hills and dales 
An eccho shrill did make. 

Lord Percy to the quarry went, 

To view the slaughter’d deere; 

Quoth he, Erie Douglas promised 
This day to meet me heere: 

But if I thought he wold not come, 

Noe longer wold I stay. 

With that, a brave younge gentleman 
Thus to the Erie did say: 

Loe, yonder doth Erie Douglas come, 

His men in armour bright; 

Full twenty hundred Scottish speres 
All marching in our sight; 

\11 men of pleasant Tivydale, 

Fast by the river Tweede : 

) cease your sports, Erie Percy said, 

And take your bowes with speede. 

\nd now with me, my countrymen, 

Your courage forth advance; 

For there was never champion yett 
In Scotland or in France, 

Jhat ever did on horsebacke come, 

But if my hap it were, 

[ durst encounter man for man, 

With him to break a spere. 

Erie Douglas on his milke-white steede, 
Most like a baron bold, 

Rode formost of his company, 

Whose armour shone like gold. 

Show me, sayd hee, whose men you bee, 
That hunt soe boldly heere, 

That, without my consent, doe chase 
And kill my fallow-decre. 


The first man that did answer make 
Was noble Percy hee ; 

Who sayd, Wee list not to declare, 

Nor shew whose men we bee. 

Yet wee will spend our deerest blood, 
Thy cheefest harts to slay. 

; Then Douglas swore a.solempne oathe, 

S And thus in rage did say, 

Ere thus I will out-braved bee, 

One of us two shall dye : 

I know thee well, an erle thou art; 

Lord Percy, soe am I. 

But trust me, Percy, pittye it were 
i And great offence to kill 
I Any of these our guiltlesse men, 

For they have done no ill. 

; Let thou and I the battell trye, 

And set our men aside. 

Accurst bee he, Erie Percy sayd. 

By whom this is denv’d. 

Then stept a gallant squier forth, 
Witlierington was his name, 

Who said, I wold not have it told 
To Henry our king for shame, 

That ere my captaine fought on foote 
And 1 stood looking on. 

You bee two erles, sayd Witherinton, 
And T a squier alone: 

lie doe the best that doe I may, 

While I have power to stand: 

While I have power to weeld my sword, 
lie fight with heart and hand. 

.Our English archers bent their bowes, 
Their hearts were good and trew; 

Att the first flight of arrowes sent, 

Full four-score Scots they slew. 

[Yet bides Earl Douglas on the bent, 

As Chieftan stout and good. 

As valiant Captain, all unmoved 
The shock he firmly stood. 

His host he parted had in three, 

As Leader ware and try’d, 

And soon his spearmen on their foes 
Bare down on every side. 






302 


FIRESIDE ENCYCLOPAEDIA OF POETRY. 


To drive the decre with hound and home, 
Douglas bade on the bent; 

Two captaines moved with mickle might 
Their speares to shivers went. 

Throughout the English archery 
They dealt full many a wound: 

But still our valiant Englishmen 
All firmly kept their ground : 

And throwing strait their bows away, 
They grasp’d their swords so bright: 

And now sharp blows, a heavy shower, 

On shields and helmets light.] 

They closed full fast on everye side, 

Noe slacknes there was found ; 

And many a gallant gentleman 
Lay gasping on the ground. 

0 Christ! it was a griefe to see, 

And likewise for to heare, 

The cries of men lying in their gore, 

And scatter’d here and there. 

At last these two stout erles did meet, 

Like captaines of great might: 

Like lyons wood, they layd on lode, 

And made a cruell fight: 

They fought untill they both did sweat, 
With swords of temper’d steele; 

Until the blood, like, drops of rain, 

They trickling downe did feele. 

Yeeld thee, Lord Percy, Douglas sayd; 

In faith I will thee bringe, 

Where thou shalt high advanced bee 
By James our Scottish king: 

Thv ransome I will freely give, 

And this report of thee, 

Thou art the most courageous knight 
That ever I did see. 

Noe, Douglas, quoth Erie Percy then, 

Thy proffer I doe scorne ; 

I will not yeelde to any Scott, 

That ever yett was borne. 

With that, there came an arrow keene 
Out of an English bow, 

Which struck Erie Douglas to the heart, 

A deepe and deadlye blow : 


Who never spake more words than these. 
Fight on, my merry men all; 

For why, my life is at an end; 

Lord Percy sees my fall. 

Then leaving liffe, Erie Percy tooke 
The dead man by the hand ; 

And said, Erie Douglas, for thy life 
Wold I had lost my land. 

O Christ! my verrv hert doth bleed 
With sorrow for thy sake ; 

For sure, a more redoubted knight 
Mischance cold never take. 

A knight amongst the Scotts there was, 
Which saw Erie Douglas dye, 

Who streight in wrath did vow revenge 
Upon the Lord Percye : 

Sir Hugh Mountgomerv was he call’d, 
Who with a speare most bright, 

Well-mounted on a gallant steed, 

Ran fiercely through the fight; 

And past the English archers all, 
Without all dread or feare; 

And through Erie Percves body then 
He thrust his hatefull speare; 

With such a vehement force and might 
He did his body gore, 

The staff ran through the other side 
A large cloth-yard, and more. 

So thus did both these nobles dye, 

Whose courage none could staine • 

An English archer then perceived 
The noble erle was slaine ; 

He had a bow bent in his hand, 

Made of a trusty tree; 

An arrow of a cloth-yard long 
Up to the head drew hee: 

Against Sir Hugh Mountgomerye, 

So right the shaft lie sett, 

The gray goose-wing that was thereonj 
In his harts blood was wett. 

This fight did last from break of day 
Till setting of the sun, 

For when they rung the evening bell, 

The battle scarce was done. 






HISTORICAL POEMS. 


3< 


With stout Erie Percy, there was slaine 
Sir John of Egerton, 

Sir Robert Ratcliff, and Sir John, 

Sir James that bold barrbn ; 

And with Sir George and stout Sir James, 
Both knights of good account, 

Good Sir Ralph Raby there was slaine, 
Whose prowesse did surmount. 

For Witherington needs must I wayle 
As one in doleful dumpes, 

For when his legs were smitten off, 

He fought upon his stumpes. 

And with Erie Douglas, there was slaine 
Sir Hugh Mountgomerye, 

Sir Charles Murray, that from the feeld 
One foote wold never flee. 

Sir Charles Murray, of Ratcliff, too, 

His sisters sonne was hee; 

Sir David Lamb, so well esteem’d, 

Yet savfed cold not bee. 

And the Lord Maxwell in like case 
Did with Erie Douglas dye; 

Of twenty hundred Scottish speres, 

Scarce fifty-five did five. 

Of fifteen hundred Englishmen, 

Went home but fifty-three; 

The rest were slaine in Chevy-Chace, 
Under the greene woode tree. 

Next day did many widowes come, 

Their husbands to bewayle; 

They washt their wounds in brinish teares, 
But all wold not prevavle. 

Theyr bodies, bathed in purple gore, 

They bare with them away, 

They kist them dead a thousand times, 

Ere they were cladd in clay. 

The newes was brought to Eddenborrow, 
Where Scotlands king did raigne, 

That brave Erie Douglas suddenlye 
Was with an arrow slaine. 

O heavy newes, King James did say, 
Scotland may witnesse bee, 

I have not any captaine more 
Of such account as hee. 


| Like tydings to King Henry came, 

Within as short a space, 

That Percy of Northumberland 
Was slaine in Chevy-Chace. 

; Now God be witli him, said our. king, 

Sith it will noe better bee; 

I trust I have within my realme 
Five hundred as good as he; 

, Yett shall not Scotts nor Scotland say, 

But I will vengeance take; 

' lie be revenged on them all, 

For brave Erie Percyes sake. 

This vow full well the king perform’d 
After, at Humbledowne; 

In one day fifty knights were slayne, 

With lords of great renowne; 

And of the rest, of small account, 

Did many thousands dye ; 

Thus endeth the hunting of Chevy-Chace, 
Made by the Erie Percye. 

God save our king, and bless this land 
With plentye, joy, and peace; 

And grant henceforth, that foule debate 
’Twixt noblemen may cease. 

Author Unknown. 

Edinburgh after Floddex. 

News of battle !—news of battle ! 

Hark ! ’tis ringing down the street; 

| And the archways and the pavement 
Bear the clang of hurrying feet. 

I News of battle ! who hath brought it ? 
News of triumph ? Who should bring 
Tidings from our noble army, 

Greetings from our gallant King? 

All last night we watch’d the beacons 
Blazing on the hills afar, 

Each one bearing, as it kindled, 

Message of the open’d war, 

All night long the northern streamers 
Shot across the trembling sky: 

Fearful lights that never beckon 
Save when kings or heroes die. 

News of battle? Who hath brought it? 

All are thronging to the gate; 

“Warder—warder! open quickly! 

} Man—is this a time to wait ?” 











FIRESIDE ENCYCLOPAEDIA OF POETRY. 


Iu4 


And the heavy gates are open’d : 

Then a murmur long and loud, 

And a cry of fear and wonder 
Bursts from out the bending crowd. 

For they see in batter’d harness 
Only one hard-stricken man ; 

And his weary steed is wounded, 

And his cheek is pale and wan : 

Spearless hangs a bloody banner 
In his weak and drooping hand— 
dod ! can that be Randolph Murray, 
Captain of the city band ? 

Hound him crush the people, crying, 

“ Tell us all—oh, tell us true ! 

Where are they who went to battle, 
Randolph Murray, sworn to you ? 

Where are they, our brothers—children ? 

Have they met the English foe ? 

Why art thou alone, unfollow’d ? 

Is it weal or is it woe ?” 

Like a corpse the grisly warrior 
Looks from out his helm of steel; 

But no word he speaks in answer—■ 

Only with his armfed heel 
Dhides his weary steed, and onward 
Up the city streets they ride ; 

Fathers, sisters, mothers, children, 
Shrieking, praying by his side. 

‘ By the God that made thee, Randolph ! 

Tell us what mischance hath come.” 
Then he lifts his riven banner, 

And the asker’s voice is dumb. 

The elders of the city 
Have met within their hall— 

The men whom good King James had 
charged 

To watch the tower and wall. 

Your hands are weak with age,” he said, 
“ Your hearts are stout and true ; 

Bo bide ye in the Maiden Town, 

While others fight for you. 

My trumpet from the Border-side 
Shall send a blast so clear, 

That all who wait within the gate 
That stirring sound may hear. 

Dr, if it be the will of Heaven 
That back I never come, 

A.nd if, instead of Scottish shouts, 

Ye hear the English drum— 

Then let the warning bells ring out, 

Then gird you to the fray, 


Then man the walls like burghers stout. 
And fight while fight you may. 

’Twere better that in fiery flame 
The roofs should thunder down, 

Than that the foot of foreign foe 
Should trample in the town !’’ 

Then in came Randolph Murray,— 

His step was slow and weak, 

And, as he doff’d his dinted helm, 

The tears ran down his cheek : 

They fell upon his corslet 
And on his mailed hand, 

As he gazed around him wistfully, 
Leaning sorely on his brand. 

And none who then beheld him 
But straight were smote with fear. 

For a bolder and a sterner man 
Had never couch’d a spear. 

They knew so sad a messenger 
Some ghastly news must bring : 

And all of them were fathers, 

And their sons were with the King. 

And up then rose the Provost— 

A brave old man was he, 

Of ancient name, and knightly fame, 
And chivalrous degree. 

He ruled our city like a lord 
Who brook’d no equal here, 

And ever for the townsman’s rights 
Stood up ’gainst prince and peer. 

And he had seen the Scottish host 
March from the borough-muir, 

With music-storm and clamorous shout, 
And all the din that thunders out 
When youth’s of victory sure. 

But yet a dearer thought had he,— 

For, with a father’s pride, 

He saw his last remaining son 
Go forth by Randolph’s side, 

With casque on head and spur on heel, 
All keen to do and dare ; 

And proudly did that gallant boy 
Dunedin’s banner bear. 

Oh, woeful now was the old man’s look, 
And he spake right heavily— 

“ Now, Randolph, tell thy tidings, 
However sharp they be ! 

Woe is written on thy visage, 

Death is looking from thy face: 
Speak ! though it be of overthrow"— 

It cannot be disgrace !” 










HISTORICAL POEMS. 




ltiglit bitter was the agony 
That wrung that soldier proud : 
Thrice did he strive to answer, 

And thrice he groan’d aloud. 

Then he gave the riven banner 
To the old man’s shaking hand, 
flaying, “ That is all I bring ye 
From the bravest of the land! 

Ay ! ye may look upon it— 

It was guarded well and long 
By your brothers and your children, 
By the valiant and the strong. 

One by one they fell around it, 

As the archers laid them low, 
Grimly dying, still unconquer’d, 

With their faces to the foe. 

Ay, ye may well look upon it— 
There is more than honor there, 
Else, be sure, I had not brought it 
From the field of dark despair. 
Never yet was royal banner 
Steep’d in such a costly dye; 

It hath lain upon a bosom 

Where no other shroud shall lie. 
Sirs, I charge you, keep it holy; 

Keep it as a sacred thing, 

For the stain ye see upon it 

Was the life-blood of your King!” 


Woe, and woe, and lamentation ! 

What a piteous cry was there ! 

Widows, maidens, mothers, children, 
Shrieking, sobbing in despair! 

Through the streets the death-word rushes, 
Spreading terror, sweeping on— 

“ Jesu Christ! our King has fallen— 

O Great God, King James is gone! 

Holy Mother Mary, shield us, 

Thou who erst didst lose thy Son ! 

O the blackest day for Scotland 
That she ever knew before ! 

O our King—the good, the noble, 

Shall we see him never more? 

Woe to us, and woe to Scotland! 

0 our sons, our sons and men ! 

Surely some have ’scaped the Southron, 
Surely some will come again !” 

Till the oak that fell last winter 
Shall uprear its shatter’d stem— 

Wives and mothers of Dunedin— 

Ye may look in vain for them ! 

20 


But within the Council Chamber 
All was silent as the grave, 

Whilst the tempest of their sorrow 
Shook the bosoms of the brave. 

Well indeed might they be shaken 
With the weight of such a blow: 

He was gone—their prince, their idol, 
Whom they loved and worshipp’d so ! 
Like a knell of death and judgment 
Rung from heaven by angel hand, 

Fell the words of desolation 
On the elders of the land. 

Hoary heads were bow’d and trembling, 
Wither’d hands were clasp’d and wrung 
God had left the old and feeble, 

He had ta’en away the young. 


Then the Provost he uprose, 

And his lip was ashen white; 

But a flush was on his brow, 

And his eye was full of light. 

“Thou hast spoken, Randolph Murray, 
Like a soldier stout and true; 

Thou hast done a deed of daring 
Had been perill’d but by few. 

For thou hast not shamed to face us, 
Nor to speak thy ghastly tale, 
Standing—thou a knight and captain— 
Here, alive within thy mail! 

Now, as my God shall judge me, 

I hold it braver done, 

Than hadst thou tarried in thy place, 
And died above my son ! 

Thou needst not tell it: he is dead. 

God help us all this day! 

But speak—how fought the citizens 
Within the furious fray ? 

For, by the might of Mary! 

’Twere something still to tell 
That no Scottish foot went backward 
When the Royal Lion fell!” 


“ No one fail’d him! He is keeping 
Royal state and semblance still; 
Knight and noble lie around him, 
Cold on Flodden’s fatal hill. 

Of the brave and gallant-hearted, 
Whom ye sent with prayers away. 
Not a single man departed 
From his Monarch yesterday. 








FIRESIDE ENC YCL OP/ED I A OF POETRY. 


306 


Had you seen them, O my masters ! 

When the night began to fall, 

And the English spearmen gather’d 
Round a grim and ghastly wall! 

As the wolves in winter circle 
Round the leaguer on the heath, 

So the greedy foe glared upward, 
Panting still for blood and death. 
But a rampart rose before them, 

Which the boldest dare not scale; 
Every stone a Scottish body, 

Every step a corpse in mail! 

And behind it lay our Monarch, 
Clenching still his shiver’d sword; 
By his side Montrose and Athole, 

At his feet a Southron lord. 

All so thick they lay together, 

When the stars lit up the sky, 

That I knew not who were stricken, 

Or who vet remain’d to die. 

Few there were when Surrey halted, 
And his wearied host withdrew; 
None but dying men around me, 

When the English trumpet blew. 
Then I stoop’d and took the banner, 
As you see it, from his breast, 

And I closed our hero’s eyelids, 

And 1 left him to his rest. 

In the mountains growl’d the thunder, 
As I leap’d the woeful wall, 

And the heavy clouds were settling 
Over Flodden, like a pall.” 


So he ended. And the others 
Cared not any answer then ; 

Sitting silent, dumb with sorrow, 

Sitting anguish-struck, like men 
Who have seen the roaring torrent 
Sweep their happy homes away, 

And yet linger by the margin, 

Staring wildly on the spray. 

But, without, the maddening tumult 
Waxes ever more and more, 

And the crowd of wailing women 
Gather round the council-door. 

Every dusky spire is ringing 
With a dull and hollow knell, 

And the Miserere’s singing 
To the tolling of the bell. 

Through the streets the burghers hurry, 
Spreading terror as they go; 


| And the rampart’s throng’d with watchers 
For the coming of the foe. 

From each mountain-top a pillar 
; Streams into the torpid air, 

I Bearing token from the Border 
That the English host is there, 
j All without is flight and terror, 

All within is woe and fear— 

God protect thee, Maiden City, 

For thy latest hour is near! 

No ! not yet, thou high Dunedin! 

Shalt thou totter to thy fall; 

Though thy bravest and thy strongest 
Are not there to man the wall. 

No, not yet! the ancient spirit 
Of our fathers hath not gone; 

Take it to thee as a buckler 
Better far than steel or stone, 
i Oh, remember those who perish’d 
For thy birthright at the time 

When to be a Scot was treason, 

And to side with Wallace crime! 

Have they not a voice among us, 

Whilst their hallow’d dust is here? 

Hear ye not a summons sounding 
From each buried warrior’s bier ? 

Up!—they say—and keep the freedom 
Which we won you long ago: 

| Up! and keep our graves unsullied 
From the insults of the foe! 

Up! and if ye cannot save them, 

Come to us in blood and fire: 

Midst the crash of falling turrets 
Let the last of Scots expire! 

Still the bells are tolling fiercely, 

And the cry comes louder in ; 

Mothers wailing for their children, 
Sisters for their slaughter’d kin. 

All is terror and disorder; 

Till the Provost rises up, 

Calm as though he had not tasted 
Of the fell and bitter cup. 

All so stately from his sorrow, 

Rose the old undaunted chief, 

That you had not deem’d, to see him, 

His was more than common grief. 

“ Rouse ye, sirs!” he said ; “ we may uot 
Longer mourn for what is done; 

If our King be taken from us, 

We are left to guard his son. 










HISTORICAL POEMS. 


:io7 


We have sworn to keep the city 
From the foe, whate’er they be, 

And the oath that we have taken 
Never shall be broke by me. 

Death is nearer to us, brethren, 

Than it seem’d to those who died, 
Fighting yesterday at Flodden, 

By their lord and master’s side. 

Let us meet it, then, in patience, 

Not in terror or in fear; 

Though our hearts are bleeding yonder, 
Let our souls be steadfast here. 

Up, and rouse ye! Time is fleeting, 

And we yet have much to do; 

Up! and haste ye through the city, 

Stir the burghers stout and true! 
Gather all our scatter’d people, 

Fling the banner out once more,— 
Randolph Murray ! do thou bear it, 

As it erst was borne before: 

Never Scottish heart will leave it, 

When they see their Monarch’s gore ! 

“ Let them cease that dismal knelling! 

It is time enough to ring 
When the fortress-strength of Scotland 
Stoops to ruin like its King. 

Let the bells be kept for warning, 

Not for terror or alarm ; 

When they next are heard to thunder, 
Let each man and stripling arm. 

Bid the women leave their wailing— 
Do they think that woeful strain, 
From the bloody heaps of Flodden 
Can redeem their dearest slain ? 

Bid them cease,—or rather hasten 
To the churches every one; 

There to pray to Mary Mother, 

And to her anointed Son, 

That the thunderbolt above us 
May not fall in ruin yet; 

That in fire and blood and rapine 
Scotland’s glory may not set. 

Let them pray,—for never women 
Stood in need of such a prayer!— 
England’s yeomen shall not find them 
Clinging to the altars there. 

No! if we are doom’d to perish, 

Man and maiden, let us fall, 

And a common gulf of ruin 
Open wide to whelm us all! 

Never shall the ruthless spoiler 
Lay his hot insulting hand 


; On the sisters of our heroes, 

Whilst we bear a torch or brand! 

Up ! and rouse ye, then, my brothers,— 
But when next ye hear the bell 
; Sounding forth the sullen summons 
That may be our funeral knell, 

Once more let us meet together, 

•Once more see each other’s face; 

Then, like men that need not tremble, 

Go to our appointed place. 

God, our Father, will not fail us 
In that last tremendous hour— 

If all other bulwarks crumble, 

He will be our strength and tower: 
Though the ramparts rock beneath us, 

And the walls go crashing down, 

Though the roar of conflagration 
Bellow o’er the sinking town ; 

There is yet one place of shelter, 

Where the foeman cannot come, 

Where the summons never sounded 
Of the trumpet or the drum. 

There again we’ll meet our children, 

Who, on Flodden’s trampled sod, 

For their king and for their country 
Render’d up their souls to God. 

There shall we find rest and refuge, 

With our dear departed brave; 

And the ashes of the city 
Be our universal grave!” 

William Edmondstoune Aytoun. 

The Flowers of the Forest. 

I’ve heard them lilting at our ewe-milk-: 
-ing, 

Lasses a’ lilting before dawn o’ day; 

But now they are moaning on ilka green 
loaning— 

The Flowers of the Forest are a’ wede 
away. 

At bughts, in the morning, nae blvthe lads 
are scorning, 

Lasses are lonely and dowie and wae; 
Nae daffiu’, nae gabbin’, but sighing and 
sabbing, 

Ilk ane lifts her leglin and hies her away. 

In har’st, at the shearing, nae youths now 
are jeering, 

Bandsters are lvart, and runkled, and 

gray; 











308 


FIRESIDE ENCYCLOPAEDIA OF POETRY. 


At fair or at preaching, nae wooing, nae 
fleeching,— 

The Flowers of the Forest are a’ wede 
away. 

At e’en, in the gloaming, nae vounkers are 
roaming 

’Bout stacks wi’ the lasses at bogle to 

play; 

But ilk ane sits drearie, lamenting her 
dearie— 

The Flowers of the Forest are weded 
away. 

Dool and wae for the order, sent our lads 
to the Border! 

The English, for ance, by guile wan the 
day; 

The Flowers of the Forest, that fought aye 
the foremost, 

The prime of our land, are cauld in the 
clay. 

We’ll hear nae mair lilting at the ewe- 
milking,. 

Women and bairns are heartless and 
wae, 

Sighing and moaning on ilka green loan¬ 
ing— 

The Flowers of the Forest are a’ wede 
away. 

Jane Elliot. 

Ivey. 

A Song of the Huguenots. 

Now glory to the Lord of Hosts, from 
whom all glories are ! 

And glory to our Sovereign Liege, King 
Henry of Navarre! 

Now let there be the merry sound of music 
and of dance, 

Through thy cornfields green, and sunny 
vines, O pleasant land of France! 

And thou, Rochelle, our own Rochelle, 
proud city of the waters, 

Again let rapture light the eyes of all thy 
mourning daughters; 

As thou wert constant in our ills, be joyous 
in our joy, 

For cold and stiff and still are they who 
wrought thy walls annoy. 


Hurrah! Hurrah! a single field hath 
turn’d the chance of war, 

Hurrah ! Hurrah ! for Ivry, and Henry of 
Navarre. 

Oh, how our hearts were beating, when at 
the dawn of day 

We saw the army of the League drawn 
out in long array ; 

With all its priest-led citizens, and all it? 
rebel peers, 

And Appenzel’s stout infantry, and Eg- 
mont’s Flemish spears. 

There rode the brood of false Lorraine, the 
curses of our land ; 

And dark Mayenne was in the midst, a 
truncheon in his hand : 

And, as we look’d on them, we thought of 
Seine’s empurpled flood, 

And good Coligni’s hoary hair all dabbled 
with his blood; 

And we cried unto the living God, who 
rules the fate of war, 

To fight for his own holy name, and Henry 
of Navarre. 

The King is come to marshal us, in all his 
armor drest, 

And he has bound a snow-white plume 
upon his gallant crest. 

He look’d upon his people, and a tear was 
in his eye; 

He look’d upon the traitors, and his glance 
was stern and high. 

Right graciously he smiled on us, as roll’d 
from wing to wing, 

Down all our line, a deafening shout, 
“ God save our Lord, the King !” 

“And if my standard-bearer fall, as fall 
full well he may, 

For never saw I promise yet of such a 
bloody fray, 

Press where ye see my white plume shine, 
amidst the ranks of war, 

And be your oriflamme to-day the helmet 
of Navarre.” 

Hurrah ! the foes are moving. Hark to 
the mingled din, 

Of fife, and steed, and trump, and drum, 
and roaring culverin. 








AN ASSYRIAN WARRIOR 

“ The Assyrian came down like a wolf on the fold .”—Page 283 


















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HISTORICAL POEMS. 


309 


The fiery Duke is pricking fast across Saint 
Andre’s plain, 

With all the hireling chivalry of Guelders 
and Almayne. 

Now by the lips of those ye love, fair gen¬ 
tlemen of France, 

Charge for the golden lilies! upon them 
with the lance! 

A thousand spurs are striking deep, a 
thousand spears in rest, 

A thousand knights are pressing close be¬ 
hind the snow-white crest; 

And in they burst, and on they rush’d, 
while, like a guiding star, 

Amidst the thickest carnage blazed the hel¬ 
met of Navarre. 


Now, God be praised, the day is ours. 
Mayenne hath turn’d his rein. 

D’Aumale hath cried for quarter. The 
Flemish count is slain. 

Their ranks are breaking like thin clouds 
before a Biscay gale ; 

The field is heap’d with bleeding steeds, 
and flags, and cloven mail. 

And then we thought on vengeance, and, 
all along our van, 

“ Remember St. Bartholomew !” was pass’d 
from man to man. 

But out spake gentle Henry, “No French¬ 
man is my foe: 

Down, down, with every foreigner, but let 
your brethren go.” 

Oh ! was there ever such a knight, in 
friendship or in war, 

As our Sovereign Lord, King Henry, the 
soldier of Navarre ? 


Right well fought all the Frenchmen who 
fought for France to-day ; 

And many a lordly banner God gave them 
for a prey. 

But we uf the religion have borne us best 
in fight; 

And the good Lord of Rosny hath ta’en 
the cornet white. 

Our own true Maximilian the cornet white 
hath ta’en, 

The cornet white with crosses black, the 
flag of false Lorraine. 


Up with it high ; unfurl it wide ; that all 
the host may know 

How God hath humbled the proud house 
which wrought his Church such woe. 

Then on the ground, while trumpets sound 
their loudest point of war, 

Fling the red shreds, a footelotli meet for 
Henry of Navarre. 

Ho ! maidens of Vienna ; ho ! matrons of 
Lucerne; 

Weep, weep, and rend your hair for those 
who never shall return. 

Ho ! Philip, send for charity thy Mexican 
pistoles, 

That Antwerp monks may sing a mass for 
thy poor spearmen’s souls. 

Ho! gallant nobles of the League, look 
that your arms be bright; 

Ho! burghers of Saint Genevieve, keep 
watch and ward to-night. 

For our God hath crush’d the tyrant, our 
God hath raised the slave, 

And mock’d the counsel of the wise, and 
the valor of the brave. 

Then glory to His holy name, from whom 
all glories are; 

And glory to our Sovereign Lord, King 
Henry of Navarre. 

Thomas Babington Macaulay. 

The Landing of the Pilgrim 
Fathers in New England. 

“ Look now abroad ;—another race has fill’d 

Those populous borders ; wide the wood recedes, 
And towns shoot up, and fertile realms are till’d; 
The land is full of harvests and green meads.” 

Bryant. 

The breaking waves dash’d high, 

On a stern and rock-bound coast, 

And the woods against a stormy sky 
Their giant branches toss’d; 

And the heavy night hung dark, 

The hills and waters o’er, 

When a band of exiles moor’d their bark 
On the wild New England shore. 

Not as the conqueror comes, 

They, the true-hearted, came; 

Not with the roll of the stirring drums, 
And the trumpet that sings of fame; 







310 


FIRESIDE ENCYCLOPAEDIA OF POETRY. 


Not as the flying come, 

In silence and in fear,— 

They shook the depths of the desert gloom 
With their hymns of lofty cheer. 

Amidst the storm they sang, 

And the stars heard, and the sea, 

And the sounding aisles of the dim woods 
rang 

To the anthem of the free. 

The ocean eagle soar’d 
From his nest by the white wave’s foam, 
And the rocking pines of the forest 
roar’d— 

This was their welcome home. 

There were men with hoary hair 
Amidst that pilgrim band: 

Why had they come to wither there, 

Away from their childhood’s land? 

There was woman’s fearless eye, 

Lit by her deep love’s truth ; 

There was manhood’s brow serenely high, 
And the fiery heart of youth. 

What sought they thus afar? 

Bright jewels of the mine? 

The wealth of seas, the spoils of war ? 
They sought a faith’s pure shrine! 

Ay, call it holy ground, 

The soil where first they trod; 

They have left unstain’d what there they 
found— 

Freedom to worship God. 

Felicia Dorothea Hemans. 


A blue smoke rose from their pistol-locks, 
Their sword-blades were still wet; 

There were long red smears on their jerkins 
of buff, 

As the table they overset. 

Then into their cups they stirr’d the crusts, 
And cursed old London town ; 

Then waved their swords, and drank with 
a stamp 

“ God send this Crum-well-down !” 

i The ’prentice dropp’d his can of beer, 

The host turn’d pale as a clout; 
i The ruby nose of the toping squires 
Grew white at the wild men’s shout. 
Then into their cups they flung the crusts, 
And show’d their teeth with a frown; 
They flash’d their swords as they gave the 
toast, 

“God send this Crum-well-down !” 

The gambler dropp’d his dog’s-ear’d cards, 
The waiting-women scream’d, 

As the light of the fire like stains of blood, 
On the wild men’s sabres gleam’d. 

Then into their cups they splash’d the 
crusts, 

And cursed the fool of a town, 
j And leap’d on the table, and roar’d a 
toast, 

“God send this Crum-well-down !’’ 

Till on a sudden fire-bells rang, 

And the troopers sprang to horse ; 
j The eldest mutter’d between his teeth, 
j Hot curses—deep and coarse. 

In their stirrup-cups they flung the crusts, 
j And cried as they spurr’d through town, 

I With their keen swords drawn and their 
pistols cock’d, 

“ God send this Crum-well-down!” 


The Three Troopers. 
During the Protectorate. 

Into the Devil tavern 
' Three booted troopers strode, 

From spur to feather spotted and splash’d 
With the mud of a winter road. 

In each of their cups they dropp’d a crust, 
And stared at the guests with a frown; 
Then drew their swords, and roar’d for a 
toast, 

“ God send this Crum-well-down!” 


I Away they dash’d through Temple Bar, 
Their red cloaks flowing free, 

Their scabbards clash’d, each back-piece 
shone— 

None liked to touch the three. 

The silver cups that held the crusts 
They flung to the startled town, 
Shouting again, with a blaze of swords, 

“ God send this Crum-well-down !” 

George Walter Thorn bury. 








HISTORICAL POEMS. 


311 


Marching Along. 

A Cavalier Song. 

Kentish Sir Byug stood for his king, 

Bidding the crop-headed Parliament swing: 

And, pressing a troop unable to stoop 

And see the rogues flourish and honest folk 
droop, 

March’d them along, fifty-score strong, 

Great-hearted gentlemen, singing this 
song. 

God for King Charles! Pvm and such 
carles 

To the Devil that prompts ’em their trea- I 
sonous paries! 

Cavaliers, up ! Lips from the cup, 

Hands from the pasty, nor bite take nor 1 
sup 

Till you’re— 

Marching along, fifty-score strong, 
Great-hearted gentlemen, singing this 
song. 

Hampden to hell, and his obsequies’ knell 1 

Serve Hazelrig, Fiennes, and young Harry 1 
as well! 

England, good cheer! Rupert is near! 

Kentish and loyalists, keep we not here 
Marching along, fifty-score strong, 
Great-hearted gentlemen, singing this 
song ? 

Then, God for King Charles! Pym and 
his snarls 

To the Devil that pricks on such pestilent 
carles! 

Hold by the right, you double your might: 

So, onward to Nottingham, fresh for the 
fight, 

March we along, fifty-score strong, 
Great-hearted gentlemen, singing this 
song. 

• Robert Browning. 


Jacobite Toast. 

God bless the king!—I mean the Faith’s 
Defender; 

God bless (no barm in blessing) the Pre¬ 
tender ! 


But who Pretender is, or who is king— 
God bless us all!—that’s quite another 
thing. 

John Byrom. 


The Old Ca valier. 

“ For our martyred Charles I pawned my 
plate, 

For his son I spent my all, 

That a churl might dine, and drink my 
wine, 

And preach in my father’s hall: 

That father died on Marston Moor, 

My son on Worcester plain ; 

But the King he turned his back on me, 
When he got his own again. 

“The other day, there came, God wot! 

A solemn, pompous ass, 

Who begged to know if I did not go 
To the sacrifice of Mass: 

I told him fairly to his face, 

That in the field of fight, 

I had shouted loud for Church and King, 
When he would have run outright. 

“He talked of the Man of Babylon 
With his rosaries and copes, 

As if a Roundhead wasn’t worse 
Than half a hundred Popes 
I don’t know what the people mean, 

With their horror and affright; 

All Papists that I ever knew, 

Fought stoutly for the right. 

“ I now am poor and lonely, 

This cloak is worn and old, 

But yet it warms my loyal heart, 

Through sleet, and rain, and cold, 
When I call to mind the Cavaliers, 

Bold Rupert at their head, 

Bursting through blood and fire, with 
cries 

That might have waked the dead. 

“Then spur and sword, was the battleword, 
And we made their helmets ring, 
Howling, like madmen, all the while, 

For God, and for the King. 

And though they snuffled psalms, to give 
The Rebel-dogs their due, 










312 


FIRESIDE ENCYCLOPEDIA OF POETRY. 


When the roaring shot poured close and 
hot, 

They were stalwart men and true. 

“On the fatal field of Nasebv, 

Where Rupert lost the day, 

By hanging on the flying crowd 
Like a lion on his prey, 

I stood and fought it out, until, 

In spite of plate and steel, 

The blood that left my veins that day, 
Flowed up above my heel. 

“ And certainly it made those quail 
Who never quailed before, 

To look upon the awful front 

Which Cromwell’s horsemen wore. 

I felt that every hope was gone, 

When I saw their squadrons form, 

And gather for the final charge, 

Like the coming of the storm. 

“ Oh ! where was Rupert in that hour 
Of danger, toil and strife? 

It would have been to all brave men, 
Worth a hundred years of life, 

To have seen that black and gloomy force, 
As it poured down in line, 

Met midway by the Royal horse, 

And Rupert of the Rhine. 

“All this is over now, and I 
Must travel to the tomb, 

Though the King I served has got his 
own, 

In poverty and gloom. 

Well, well I served him for himself, 

So I must not now complain, 

But I often wish that I died 
With my son on Worcester plain.” 

Sib Francis Hastings Doyle. 


Naseby. 

Oh, wherefore come ye forth in triumph 
from the north, 

With your hands, and your feet, and 
your raiment all red? 

And wherefore doth your rout send forth a 
joyous shout? 

And whence be the grapes of the wine¬ 
press which ye tread? 


Oh, evil was the root, and bitter was the 
fruit, 

And crimson was the juice of the vintage 
that we trod; 

For we trampled on the throng of the 
haughty and the strong, 

Who sate in the high places and slew 
the saints of God. 

It was about the noon of a glorious day of 
June, 

That we saw their banners dance and 
their cuirasses shine, 

And the Man of Blood was there, with his 
long essenced hair, 

And Astley, and Sir Marmaduke, and 
Rupert of the Rhine. 

Like a servant of the Lord, with his Bible 
and his sword, 

The general rode along us to form us for 
the fight; 

When a murmuring sound broke out, and 
swell’d into a shout 

Among the godless horsemen upon the 
tyrant’s right. 

And hark ! like the roar of the billows on 
the shore, 

The cry of battle rises along their charg¬ 
ing line: 

For God ! for the Cause ! for the Church ! 
for the Laws! 

For Charles, king of England, and 
Rupert of the Rhine! 

The furious German comes, with his clar¬ 
ions and his drums, 

His bravoes of Alsatia and pages of 
Whitehall; 

They are bursting on our flanks! Grasp 
your pijces ! Close your ranks! 

For Rupert never comes, but to conquer, 
or to fall. 

They are here—they rush on—we are bra 
ken—we are gone— 

Our left is borne before them like stubble 
on the blast. 

0 Lord, put forth thy might! 0 Lord, de¬ 
fend the right! 

Stand back to back, in God’s name! and 
fight it to the last! 





HISTORICAL POEMS. 


313 


Stout Skippon hath a wound—the centre 
hath given ground. 

Hark! hark! what means the trampling 
of horsemen on our rear? 

Whose banner do I see, boys? ’Tis he! 
thank God ! ’tis he, boys! 

Bear up another minute ! Brave Oliver 
is here! 


Down! down! for ever down with the 
mitre and the crown ! 

With the Belial of the court, and the 
Mammon of the Pope ! 

There is woe in Oxford halls, there is wail 
in Durham’s stalls; 

The Jesuit smites his bosom, the bishop 
rends his cope. 


Their heads all stooping low, their points 
all in a row, 

Like a whirlwind on the trees, like a 
deluge on the dikes, 

Our cuirassiers have burst on the ranks of 
the accurst, 

And at a shock have scatter’d the forest 
of his pikes. 

Fast, fast, the gallants ride, in some safe 
nook to hide 

Their coward heads, predestined to rot 
on Temple Bar; 

And he--he turns! he flies! shame on 
those cruel eyes 

That bore to look on torture, and dare 
not look on war! 

Ho, comrades! scour the plain ; and ere ye 
strip the slain, 

First give another stab to make your 
search secure; 

Then shake from sleeves and pockets their 
broad-pieces and lockets, 

The tokens of the wanton, the plunder 
of the poor. 

Fools ! your doublets shone with gold, and 
your hearts were gay and bold, 

When you kiss’d your lily hands to your 
lemans to-day; 

And to-morrow shall the fox from her 
chambers in the rocks 

Lead forth her tawny cubs to howl above 
the prey. 

Where be your tongues, that late mock’d 
at heaven, and hell, and fate? 

And the fingers that once were so busy 
with your blades ? 

Your perfumed satin clothes, your catches 
and your oaths? 

Your stage-plays and your sonnets, your 
diamonds-and your spades? 


And she of the seven hills shall mourn her 
children’s ills, 

And tremble w r hen she thinks on the 
edge of England’s sword; 

And the kings of earth in fear shall shudder 
when they hear 

What the hand of God hath wrought for 
the Houses and the Word! 

Thomas Babington Macaulay. 


On the Funeral of Charles 
the First, 

At Night in St. George’s Chapel, 
Windsor. 

The castle clock had toll’d midnight. 
With mattock and with spade— 

And silent by the torches’ light—- 
His corse in earth we laid. 

The coffin bore his name, that those 
Of other years might know, 

When earth its secrets should disclose, 
Whose bones were laid below. 

“ Peace to the dead !” no children sung, 
Slow pacing up the nave; 

No prayers were read, no knell was rung 
As deep we dug his grave. 

We only heard the winter’s wind, 

In many a sullen gust, 

As o’er the open grave inclined, 

We murmur’d, “ Dust to dust!” 

A moonbeam from the arch’s height 
Stream’d, as we placed the stone ; 

The long aisles started into light, 

And all the w r indow r s shone. 

We thought we saw the banners then 
That shook along the walls, 

Whilst the sad shades of mailed men 
Were gazing on the stalls. 










FIRESIDE ENCYCLOPAEDIA OF POETRY. 


SU 


Tis gone!—Again on tombs defaced 
Sits darkness more profound; 

And only by the torch we traced 
The shadows on the ground. 


And now the chilling, freezing air 
Without blew long and loud; 

Upon our knees we breathed one prayer, 
Where he slept in his shroud. 

We laid the broken marble floor,— 

No name, no trace appears! 

And when we closed the sounding door, 
We thought of him with tears. 

William Lisle Bowles. 


When the Assault tubs In¬ 
tended to the City. 

Captain, or colonel, or knight in arms, 

Whose chance on these defenceless doors 
may seize, 

If deed of honor did thee ever please, 

Guard them, and him within protect from 
harms. 

He can requite thee; for he knows the 
charms 

That call fame on such gentle acts as 
these, 

And he can spread thy name o’er lands 
and seas, 

Whatever clime the sun’s bright circle 
warms. 

Lift not thy spear against the Muses’ 
bower: 

The great Emathian conqueror bid spare 

The house of Pindarus, when temple and 
tower 

Went to the ground; and the repeated 
air 

Of sad Electra’s poet had the power 

To save the Athenian walls from ruin 
bare. 

John Milton. 

On the Late Massacre in 
Piedmont. 

Avenge, 0 Lord, thy slaughter’d saints, 
whose bones 

Lie scatter’d on the Alpine mountains 
cold; 


Even them who kept thy truth so pure 
of old 

When all our fathers worsliipt stocks and 
stones. 


Forget not: In thy book record their 
groans 

Who were thy sheep, and in their an¬ 
cient fold 

Slain by the bloody Piedmontese, that 
roll’d 

Mother with infant down the rocks. Their 
moans 

The vales redoubled to the hills, and they 

To Heaven. Their martyr’d blood and 

ashes sow 

O’er all the Italian fields, where still doth 
sway 

The triple tyrant, that from these may 
grow 

A hundred-fold, who, having learnt Thy 
way, 

Early may fly the Babylonian woe. 

John Milton. 

The Execution of Montrose. 

Come hither, Evan Cameron! 

Come, stand behind my knee— 

I hear the river roaring down 
Toward the wintry sea. 

There’s shouting on the mountain-side. 
There’s war within the blast— 

Old faces look upon me, 

Old forms go trooping past. 

I hear the pibroch wailing 
Amidst the din of fight, ■ 

And my dim spirit wakes again 
Upon the verge of night. 

’Twas I that led the Highland host 
Through wild Loehaber’s snows, 

What time the plaided clans came down 
To battle with Montrose. 

I’ve told thee how the Southrons fell 
Beneath the broad claymore, 

And how we smote the Campbell clan 
By Inverlochy’s shore. 

I’ve told thee how we swept Dundee, 
And tamed the Lindsays’ pride; 

But never have I told thee yet 
I How the great Marquis died. 








HISTORICAL POEMS. 


315 


A. traitor sold him to his foes ;— 

0 deed of deathless shame ! 

I charge thee, hoy, if e’er thou meet 
With one of Assynt’s name— 

Be it upon the mountain’s side, 

Or yet within the glen, 

Stand he in martial gear alone, 

Or back’d by armfed men— 

Face him as thou wouldst face the man 
Who wrong’d thy sire’s renown ; 
Remember of what blood thou art, 

And strike the caitiff down ! 

They brought him to the Watergate, 

Hard bound with hempen span, 

As though they held a lion there, 

And not a ’fenceless man. 

They set him high upon a cart— 

The hangman rode below— 

They drew his hands behind his back, 

And bared his noble brow. 

Then, as a hound is slipp’d from leash, 
They cheer’d the common throng, 

And blew the note with yell and shout, 
And bade him pass along. 

It would have made a brave man’s heart 
Grow sad and sick that day, 

To watch the keen, malignant eves 
Bent down on that array. 

There stood the Whig west-country lords 
In balcony and bow ; 

There sat their gaunt and wither’d dames, 
And their daughters all a-row. 

And every open window 
Was full as full might be 
With black-robed Covenanting carles, 
That goodly sport to see! 

But when he came, though pale and wan. 
He look’d so great and high, 

So noble was his manly front, 

So calm his steadfast eye ;— 

The rabble rout forbore to shout, 

And each man held his breath, 

For well they knew the hero’s soul 
Was face to face with death. 

And then a mournful shudder 
Through all the people crept, 

And some that came to scoff at him 
Now turn’d aside and wept. 


But onward—always onward, 

In silence and in gloom, 

The dreary pageant labor’d, 

Till it reach’d the house of doom. 

Then first a woman’s voice was heard 
In jeer and laughter loud, 

And an angry cry and a hiss arose 
From the heart of the tossing crowd: 
Then, as the Graeme looked upward, 

He saw the ugly smile 
Of him who sold his king for gold— 

The master-fiend Argyle! 

The Marquis gazed a moment, 

And nothing did he say, 

But the cheek of Argyle grew ghastly pale, 
And he turn’d his eyes away. 

The painted harlot by his side, 

She shook through every limb, 

For a roar like thunder swept the street, 
And hands were clench’d at him ; 

And a Saxon soldier cried aloud, 

“ Back, coward, from thy place ! 

For seven long years thou hast not dared 
To look him in the face.” 

Had I been there with sword in hand, 

And fifty Camerons by, 

That day through high Dunedin’s streets 
Had peal’d the slogan-crv. 

Not all their troops of trampling horse, 
Nor might of mailed men— 

Not all the rebels in the south 
Had borne us backward then ! 

Once more his foot on Highland heath 
Had trod as free as air, 

Or I, and all who bore my name, 

Been laid around him there ! 

It might not be. They placed him next 
Within the solemn hall, 

Where once the Scottish kings were throned 
Amidst their nobles all. 

But there was dust of vulgar feet 
On that polluted floor, 

And perjured traitors fill’d the place 
Where good men sate before. 

With savage glee came Warriston 
To read the murderous doom ; 

And then uprose the great Montrose 
In the middle of the room : 










316 


FIRESIDE ENCYCLOPAEDIA OF POETRY. 


‘ Now, by my faith as belted knight 
And by the name I bear, 

And by the bright St. Andrew's cross 
That waves above ns there— 

Yea, by a greater, mightier oath— 

And oh that such should be !— 

By that dark stream of royal blood 
That lies ’twixt you and me— 

I have not sought in battle-field 
A wreath of such renown, 

Nor dared I hope on my dying day 
To win the martyr’s crown ! 

“ There is a chamber far away 
Where sleep the good and brave, 

But a better place ye have named for me 
Than by my fathers’ grave. 

For truth and right, ’gainst treason’s might, 
This hand hath always striven, 

And ye raise it up for a witness still 
In the eye of earth and heaven. 

Then nail my head on yonder tower— 
Give every town a limb— 

And God who made shall gather them : 

I go from you to Him!” 

The morning dawn’d full darkly, 

The rain came flashing down, 

And the jagged streak of the levin-bolt 
Lit up the gloomy town ; 

The thunder crash’d across the heaven, 
The fatal hour was come ; 

Yet aye broke in, with muffled beat, 

The ’larum of the drum. 

There was madness on the earth below 
And anger in the sky, 

And young and old, and rich and poor, 
Came forth to see him die. 

Ah, God ! that ghastly gibbet! 

How dismal ’tis to see 
The great tall spectral skeleton, 

The ladder and the tree! 

Hark ! hark . it is the clash of arms— 

The bells begin to toll— 

“ He is coming ! he is coming ! 

God’s mercy on his soul!” 

One last long peal of thunder— 

The clouds are clear’d away, 

And the glorious sun once more looks down 
Amidst the dazzling day. 


“ He is coming ! he is coming !” 

Like a bridegroom from his room, 

Came the hero from his prison 
To the scaffold and the doom. 

There was glory on his forehead, 

There was lustre in his eye, 

And he never walk’d to battle 
More proudly than to die ; 

There was color in his visage, 

Though the cheeks of all were wan. 

And they marvell’d as they saw him pass, 
That great and goodly man ! 

He mounted up the scaffold, 

And he turn’d him to the crowd ; 

But they dared not trust the people. 

So he might not speak aloud ; 

But he look’d upon the heavens, 

And they were clear and blue, 

And in the liquid ether 
The eye of God shone through. 

Yet a black and murky battlement 
Lay resting on the hill, 

As though the thunder slept within— 

All else was calm and still. 

The grim Geneva ministers 
With anxious scowl drew near, 

As you have seen the ravens flock 
Around the dying deer. 

He would not deign them word nor sign, 
But alone he bent the knee ; 

And veil’d his face for Christ’s dear grace 
Beneath the gallows tree. 

Then radiant and serene he rose, 

And cast his cloak away : 

For he had ta’en his latest look 
Of earth and sun and day. 

A beam of light fell o’er him, 

Like a glory round the shriven, 

And he climb’d the lofty ladder 
As it were the path to heaven. 

Then came a flash from out the cloud, 

And a stunning thunder-roll; 

And no man dared to look aloft, 

For fear was on every soul. 

There was another heavy sound, 

A hush and then a groan ; 

And darkness swept across the sky— 

The work of death was done ! 

William Edmondstoune Aytoun. 








THOMAS J. JACKSON. 

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•'STONEWALL” JACKSON MONUMENT. RICHMOND. VA. 

“ The shrewd dry smile ; the speech so pat, 

So calm, so blunt, so true. ”—Page 352. 




















































One sleeps beside the Tennessee .”—Page 366. 














HISTORIC AI POEMS. 




The Bonnets of Bonnie 
Dundee. 

To the lords of convention ’twas Claver- 
housc who spoke, 

“ Ere the king’s crown shall fall there are 
crowns to be broke; 

So let each cavalier who loves honor and 
me 

Come follow the bonnets of bonnie Dun¬ 
dee !” 

Come fill up my cup, come fill up my 
can; 

Come saddle your horses, and call up 
your men; 

Come open the Westport and let us 
gang free, 

And it’s room for the bonnets of 
bonnie Dundee! 

Dundee he is mounted, he rides up the 
street, 

The bells are rung backward, the drums 
they are beat; 

But the provost, douce man, said, “ Just 
e’en let him be, 

The gude toun is well quit of that de’il of 
Dundee!” 

Come fill up my cup, come fill up my 
can ; 

Come saddle your horses, and call up ' 
your men; 

Come open the Westport and let us I 
gang free, 

And it’s room for the bonnets of 
bonnie Dundee! 

As he rode doun the sanctified bends of 
the Bow 

Ilk carline was flyting and shaking her 
pow; 

But the young plants of grace they look’d 
cowthie and slee, 

Thinking, Luck to thy bonnet, thou bonnie 
Dundee! 

Come fill up my cup, come fill up my 
can; 

Come saddle your horses, and call up 
your men; 

Come open the Westport and let us 
gang free. 

And it’s room for the bonnets of 
bonnie Dundee! 


With sour-featured Whigs the Grass- 
market was th rang’d 

As if half the west had set tryst to be 
hang’d; 

There was spite in each look, there was 
fear in each ee, 

As they watch’d for the bonnets of bonnie 
Dundee. 

Come fill up my cup, come fill up my 
can; 

Come saddle your horses, and call up 
your men ; 

Come open the Westport and let us 
gang free, 

And it’s room for the bonnets of 
bonnie Dundee! 

These cowls of Kilmarnock had spits and 
had spears, 

And lang-hafted gullies to kill cavaliers; 

But they shrunk to close-heads, and the 
causeway was free 

At the toss of the bonnet of bonnie Dun¬ 
dee. 

Come fill up my cup, come fill up my 
can ; 

Come saddle your horses, and call up 
your men; 

Come open the Westport and let us 
gang free, 

And it’s room for the bonnets of 
bonnie Dundee! 

He spurr’d to the foot of the proud castle 
rock, 

And with the gay Gordon he gallantly 
spoke: 

“Let Mons Meg and her marrows speak 
twa words or three, 

For the love of the bonnet of bonnie Dun¬ 
dee.” 

Come fill up my cup, come fill up my 
can; 

Come saddle your horses, and call up 
your men; 

Come open the Westport and let us 
gang free, 

And it’s room for the bonnets of 
bonnie Dundee! 

The Gordon demands of him which way 
he goes— 

“ Where’er shall direct me the shade of 
Montrose! 








FIRESIDE ENCYCLOPAEDIA OF POETRY. 


318 


Your Grace in short space shall hear tid¬ 
ings of me, 

Or that low lies the bonnet of bonnie 
Dundee. 

Come fill up my cup, come fill up my 
can; 

Come saddle your horses, and call up 
your men; 

Come open the Westport and let us 
gang free, 

And it’s room for the bonnets of 
bonnie Dundee! 

“ There are hills beyond Pentland and 
lands beyond Forth; 

If there’s lords in the Lowlands, there’s 
chiefs in the north ; 

There are wild Duniewassals three thou¬ 
sand times three 

Will cry ‘Hoigh !’ for the bonnet of bonnie 
Dundee. 

Come fill up my cup, come fill up my 
can; 

Come saddle your horses, and call up 
your men; 

Come open the Westport and let us 
gang free, 

And it’s room for the bonnets of 
bonnie Dundee! 

“ There’s brass on the target of barken’d 
bull-hide, 

There’s steel in the scabbard that dangles 
beside; 

The brass shall be burnish’d, the steel 
shall flash free, 

At a toss of the bonnet of bonnie Dundee. 

Come fill up my cup. come fill up my 
can; 

Come saddle your horses, and call up 
your men; 

Come open the Westport and let us 
gang free, 

And it’s room for the bonnets of 
bonnie Dundee! 

“Away to the hills, to the caves, to the 
rocks; 

Ere I own an usurper I’ll couch with the fox; 

And tremble, false Whigs, in the midst of 
your glee, 

You have not seen the last of my bonnet 
and me.” 


Come fill up my cup, come fill up mv 
can; 

Come saddle your horses, and call up 
your men; 

Come open the Westport and let us 
gang free, 

And it’s room for the bonnets of 
bonnie Dundee! 

He waved his proud hand, and the trump¬ 
ets were blown, 

The kettle-drums clash’d, and the horse¬ 
men rode on, 

Till on Eavelston’s cliffs and on Clermis- 
ton’s lea 

Died away the wild war-notes of bonnie 
Dundee. 

Come fill up my cup, come fill up my 
can ; 

Come saddle the horses, and call up 
the men; 

Come open your doors and let me gae 
free, 

For it’s up with the bonnets of bonnie 
Dundee! 

Sir Walter Scott. 

The Burial-March of Dundee. 

Sound fife, and cry the slogan— 

Let the pibroch shake the air 

With its wild triumphal music, 

Worthy of the freight we bear. 

Let the ancient hills of Scotland 
Hear once more the battle-song 

Swell within their glens and valleys 
As the clansmen march along ! 

Never from the field of combat, 

Never from the deadly fray, 

Was a nobler trophy carried 
Than we bring with us to-day ; 

Never since the valiant Douglas 
On his dauntless bosom bore 

Good King Robert’s heart—the priceless— 
To our dear Redeemer’s shore ! 

Lo ! we bring with us the hero— 

Lo ! we bring the conquering Grseme, 

Crown’d as best beseems a victor 
From the altar of his fame ; 

Fresh and bleeding from the battle 
Whence his spirit took its flight, 

Midst the crashing charge of squadrons, 
And the thunder of the fight! 









HISTORICAL POEMS. 


Strike, I say, the notes of triumph, 

As we march o’er moor and lea ! 

Is there any here will venture 
To bewail our dead Dundee ? 

Let the widows of the traitors 
Weep until their eyes are dim ! 

Wail ye may full well for Scotland— 
Let none dare to mourn for him ! 

See ! above his glorious body 
Lies the royal banner’s fold— 

See ! his valiant blood is mingled 
With its crimson and its gold. 

See how calm he looks and stately, 
Like a warrior on his shield, 

Waiting till the flush of morning 
Breaks along the battle-field ! 

See—Oh never more, my comrades, 
Shall we see that falcon eye 
Redden with its inward lightning, 

As the hour of fight drew nigh ! 
Never shall we hear the voice that, 
Clearer than the trumpet’s call, 

Bade us strike for King and Country, 
Bade us win the field, or fall! 

On the heights of Killiecrankie 
Yester-morn our army lay : 

Slowly rose the mist in columns 
From the river’s broken way; 
Hoarsely roar’d the swollen torrent, 
And the pass was wrapp’d in gloom, 
When the clansmen rose together 
From their lair amidst the broom. 
Then we belted on our tartans, 

And our bonnets down we drew, 
And we felt our broadswords’ edges, 
And we proved them to be true ; 
And we pray’d the prayer of soldiers, 
And we cried the gathering-cry, 

And we clasp’d the hands of kinsmen, 
And we swore to do or die ! 

Then our leader rode before us 
On his war-horse black as night— 
Well the Cameronian rebels 
Knew that charger in the fight!— 
And a cry of exultation 

From the bearded warriors rose ; 
For we loved the house of Claver’se, 
And we thought of good Montrose. 
But he raised his hand for silence— 

“ Soldiers ! I have sworn a vow : 
Ere the evening star shall glisten 
On Schehallion’s lofty brow, 


31'.t 


Either we shall rest in triumph, 

Or another of the Grsemes 
Shall have died in battle-harness 
For his Country and King James f 
Think upon the Royal Martyr— 

Think of what his race endure— 
Think on him whom butchers murder’d 
On the field of Magus Muir : 

By his sacred blood I charge ye, 

By the ruin’d hearth and shrine— 

By the blighted hopes of Scotland, 

By your injuries and mine— 

Strike this day as if the anvil 

Lay beneath your blows the while, 

Be they Covenanting traitors, 

Or the brood of false Argvle ! 

Strike ! and drive the trembling rebels 
Backward o’er the stormy Forth ; 

Let them tell their pale Convention 
How they fared within the North. 

Let them tell that Highland honor 
Is not to be bought nor sold, 

That we scorn their prince’s anger 
As we loathe his foreign gold. 

Strike ! and when the fight is over, 

If you look in vain for me, 

Where the dead are lying thickest 
Search for him that was Dundee !” 

Loudly then the hills re-echoed 
With our answer to his call, 

But a deeper echo sounded 
In the bosoms of us all. 

For the lands of wide Breadalbane, 

Not a man who heard him speak 
Would that day have left the battle. 

Burning eye and flushing cheek 
Told the clansmen’s fierce emotion, 

And they harder drew their breath; 
For their souls were strong within them, 
Stronger than the grasp of death. 
Soon we heard a challenge-trumpet 
Sounding in the pass below, 

And the distant tramp of horses, 

And tire voices of the foe; 

Down we crouch’d amid the bracken, 
Till the Lowland ranks drew near, 
Panting like the hounds in summer, 
When they scent the stately deer. 
From the dark defile emerging, 

Next we saw the squadrons come, 
Leslie’s foot and Leven’s troopers 
Marching to the tuck of drum; 





FIRESIDE ENCYCLOPAEDIA OF POETR Y. 


;i20 


Through the scatter’d wood of birches, 
O’er the broken ground and heath, 
Wound the long battalion slowly, 

Till they gain’d the field beneath ; 

Then we bounded from our covert.— 
Judge how look’d the Saxons then, 
When they saw the rugged mountain 
Start to life with armed men ! 

Like a tempest down the ridges 
Swept the hurricane of steel, 

Rose the Slogan of Macdonald— 

Flash’d the broadsword of Lochiel! 
Vainly sped the withering volley 
’Mongst the foremost of our band—• 

On we pour’d until we met them, 

F'oot to foot, and hand to hand. 

Horse and man went down like drift¬ 
wood 

When the floods are black at Yule, 

And their carcasses are whirling 
In the Garry’s deepest pool. 

Horse and man went down before us— 
Living foe there tarried none 
On the field of Killiecrankie, 

When that stubborn fight was done! 

And the evening star was shining 
On Schehallion’s distant head, 

When we wiped our bloody broadswords 
And return’d to count the dead. 

There we found him gash’d and gory, 
Stretch’d upon the cumber’d plain, 

As he told us where to seek him, 

In the thickest of the slain. 

And a smile was on his visage, 

For within his dying ear 
Peal’d the joyful note of triumph, 

And the clansmen’s clamorous cheer: 

So, amidst the battle’s thunder. 

Shot, and steel, and scorching flame, 

In the glory of his manhood 
Pass’d the spirit of the Graeme! 

Open wide the vaults of Athol, 

Where the bones of heroes rest— 

Open wide the hallow’d portals 
To receive another guest! 

Last of Scots, and last of freemen— 

Last of all that dauntless race 
Who would rather die unsullied 
Than outlive the land’s disgrace ! 


0 thou lion-hearted warrior ! 

Reck not of the after-time: 

Honor may be deem’d dishonor, 

Loyalty be called a crime. 

Sleep in peace with kindred ashes 
Of the noble and the true, 

Hands that never failed their country, 
Hearts that never baseness knew. 
Sleep !—and till the latest trumpet 
Wakes the dead from earth and sea, 
Scotland shall not boast a braver 
Chieftain than our own Dundee! 

William Edmondstoune Aytoun. 

FONTENOY. 

Thrice, at the huts of Fontenov, the Eng¬ 
lish column fail’d, 

j And twice the lines of Saint Antoine the 
Dutch in vain assail’d, 

For town and slope were fill’d with fort 
and flanking battery, 

And 'well they swept the English ranks 
and Dutch auxiliary. 

As vainly, through De Barri’s wood, the 
British soldiers burst, 

The French artillery drove them back, di¬ 
minish’d and dispersed. 

The bloody Duke of Cumberland beheld 
with anxious eye, 

And order’d up his last reserve, his latest 
chance to try; 

On Fontenov, on Fontenoy, how fast his 
generals ride! 

And mustering come his chosen troops, 
like clouds at eventide. 

Six thousand English veterans in stately 
column tread, 

Their cannon blaze in front and flank, 
Lord Hay is at their head; 

Steady they step adown the slope, steady 
they climb the hill, 

Steady they load, steady they fire, moving 
right onward still, 

Betwixt the wood and Fontenoy, as through 
a furnace-blast, 

Through rampart, trench, and palisade, 
and bullets showering fast; 

And on the open plain above they rose, 
and kept their course, 

With ready fire and grim resolve, that 
mock’d at hostile force: 





HISTORWA L POEMS. 


321 


Past Fontenov, past Fontenov, while thin¬ 
ner grow their ranks— 

They break, as broke the Zuyder Zee 
through Holland’s ocean banks. 

More idly than the summer flies French 
tirailleurs rush round; 

As stubble to the lava tide French squad¬ 
rons strew the ground; 

Bomb-shell, and grape, and round-shot 
tore, still on they march’d and 
fired— 

Fast, from each volley, grenadier and vol- 
tigeur retired. 

“ Push on, my household cavalry!” King 
Louis madly cried: 

To death they rush, but rude their shock; 
not unavenged they died. 

On through the camp the column trod— 
King Louis turns his rein : 

“Not yet, my liege,” Saxe interposed, “the 
Irish troops remain 

And Fontenoy, famed Fontenoy, had been 
a Waterloo, 

Were not these exiles ready then, fresh, 
vehement, and true. 

“ Lord Clare,” he says, “ you have your j 
wish, there are your Saxon foes !” 

The Marshal almost smiles to see, so fu¬ 
riously he goes. 

How fierce the look these exiles wear, 
who’re wont to be so gay ; 

The treasured wrongs of fifty years are in 
their hearts to-day— 

The treaty broken, ere the ink wherewith 
’twas writ could dry, 

Their plunder’d homes, their ruin’d 
shrines, their women’s parting cry, 

Their priesthood hunted down like wolves, 
their country overthrown,— 

Each looks as if revenge for all were 
staked on him alone. 

On Fontenoy, on Fontenoy, nor ever yet 
elsewhere, 

Rush’d on to fight a nobler band than 
these proud exiles were. 

O’Brien’s voice is hoarse with joy, as, 
halting, he commands, 

“ Fix bay’nets ”—“ Chargelike moun¬ 
tain-storm rush on these fiery bands. 

21 


Thin is the English column now, and faint 
their volleys grow, 

Yet, must’ring all the strength they have, 
they make a gallant show. 

They dress their ranks upon the hill to face 
that battle-wind, 

Their bayonets the breakers’ foam, like 
rocks tin 1 men behind ; 

One volley crashes from their line, when, 
through the surging smoke, 

With empty guns clutch’d in their hands, 
the headlong Irish broke. 

On Fontenoy, on Fontenoy, hark to that 
fierce huzza: 

I “Revenge! remember Limerick! dash down 
the Sacsanach!” 

Like lions leaping at a fold, when mad 
with hunger’s pang, 

i Right up against the English line the Irish 
exiles sprang; 

j Bright was their steel, ’tis bloody now, 
their guns are fill’d with gore; 

i Through shatter’d ranks, and sever’d files, 
and trampled flags they tore; 

The English strove with desperate strength, 
paused, rallied, stagger’d, fled,— 

The green hillside is matted close with 
dying and with dead. 

Across the plain and far away pass’d on 
that hideous wrack, 

While cavalier and fantassin dash in upon 
their track. 

On Fontenoy, on Fontenoy, like eagles in 
the sun, 

With bloody plumes the Irish stand—the 
field is fought and won ! 

Thomas Osborne Davis. 

Battle of Fontenoy. 

By our camp-fires rose a murmur 
At the dawning of the day, 

And the tread of many footsteps 
Spoke the advent of the fray; 

And as we took our places, 

Few and stern were our words, 

While some were tightening horse-girths. 
And some were girding swords. 

The trumpet-blast has sounded 
Our footmen to array— 








322 


FIRESIDE EN C Y CL OP JED I A OF POETRY. 


The willing steed has bounded, 

Impatient for the fray— 

The green flag is unfolded, 

While rose the cry of joy— 

“ Heaven speed dear Ireland’s banner 
To-day at Fontenoy !” 

We look’d upon that banner, 

And the memory arose 
Of our homes and perish’d kindred 
' Where the Lee or Shannon flows ; 

We look’d upon that banner, 

And we swore to God on high, 

To smite to-day the Saxon’s might— 

To conquer or to die. 

Loud swells the charging trumpet— 

’Tis a voice from our own land— 

God of battles ! God of vengeance ! 

Guide to-day the patriot’s brand ; 

There are stains to wash away, 

There are memories to destroy, 

In the best blood of the Briton 
To-day at Fontenoy. 

Plunge deep the fiery rowels 
In a thousand reeking flanks— 

Down, chivalry of Ireland, 

Down on the British ranks ! 

Now shall their serried columns 
Beneath our sabres reel— 

Through their ranks, then, with the war- 
horse— 

Through their bosoms with the steel. 

With one shout for good King Louis, 

And the fair land of the vine, 

Like the wrathful Alpine tempest, 

We swept upon their line— 

Then rang along the battle-field 
Triumphant our hurrah, 

And we smote them down, still cheering, 

“ Erin, slanthagal go bragh.” 

As prized as is the blessing 
From an aged father’s lip— 

As welcome as the haven 

To tne tempest-driven ship— 

As dear as to the lover 
The smile of gentle maid— 

Is this day of long-sought vengeance 
To the swords of the Brigade. 


See their shatter’d forces flying, 

A broken, routed line— 

See, England, what brave laurels 
For your brow to-day we twine. 

Oh, thrice bless’d the hour that witness’d 
The Briton turn to flee 
From the chivalry of Erin 
And France’s “fleur cle Us.” 

As we lay beside our camp-fires, 

When the sun had pass’d away, 

And thought upon our brethren 
Who had perish’d in the fray, 

We pray’d to God to grant us, 

And then we’d die with joy, 

One day upon our own dear land 
Like this of Fontenoy. 

Bartholomew Dowling, 

Lochiel’S Warning. 

Wizard—Lochiel. 

Wizard. 

Lochiel, Lochiel! beware of the day 
When the Lowlands shall meet thee in 
battle-array! 

For a field of the dead rushes red on my 
sight, 

And the clans of Culloden are scatter’d in 
fight. 

They rally, they bleed, for their kingdom 
and crown; 

Woe, woe to the riders that trample them 
down! 

Proud Cumberland prances, insulting the 
slain, 

And their hoof-beaten bosoms are trod to 
the plain. 

But hark ! through the fast-flashing light¬ 
ning of Avar 

What steed to the desert flies frantic and far ? 
’Tis thine, 0 Glenullin! Avhose bride shall 
await, 

Like a love-lighted Avatch-fire, all night at 
the gate. 

A steed comes at morning: no rider is 
there; 

But its bridle is red with the sign of de¬ 
spair. 

Weep, Albiu! to death and captivity led— 
Oh Aveep! but thy tears cannot number the 
dead; 







HISTORICAL POEMS. 


323 


For a merciless sword on Culloden shall [ 
wave, 

Culloden that reeks with the blood of the j 
brave. 

Loch i el. 

Go, preach to the coward, thou death-tell¬ 
ing seer! 

Or, if gory Culloden so dreadful appear, 

Draw, dotard, around thy old wavering 
sight 

This mantle, to cover the phantoms of 
fright. 

Wizard. 

Ha! laugh’st thou, Lochiel, my vision to 
scorn ? 

Proud bird of the mountain, thy plume 
shall be torn! 

Say, rush’d the bold eagle exultingly forth 

From his home in the dark-rolling clouds 
of the north ? 

Lo! the death-shot of foemen outspeeding, 
he rode 

Companionless, bearing destruction 
abroad; 

But down let him stoop from his havoc on 
high! 

Ah! home let him speed—for the spoiler is 
nigh. 

Why flames the far summit? Why shoot 
to the blast 

Those embers, like stars from the firmament 
cast? 

’Tis the fire-shower of ruin, all dreadfully J 
driven 

From his eyrie, that beacons the darkness 
of heaven. 

Oh, crested Lochiel! the peerless in might, 

Whose banners arise on the battlements’ i 
height, 

Heaven’s fire is around thee, to blast and 
to burn; 

Return to thy dwelling! all lonely return! 

For the blackness of ashes shall mark 
where it stood, 

And a wild mother scream o’er her famish¬ 
ing brood. 

Lochiel. 

False wizard, avaunt! I have marshall’d 
my clan; 

Their swords are a thousand, their bosoms 
are onel i 


They are true to the last of their blood and 
their breath, 

And like reapers descend to the harvest of 
death. 

Then welcome be Cumberland’s steed to 
the shock! 

Let him dash his proud foam like a wave 
on the rock! 

But woe to his kindred, and woe to his 
cause, 

When Albin her claymore indignantly 
draws; 

When her bonneted chieftains to victory 
crowd, 

Clanronald the dauntless, and Moray the 
proud, 

All plaided and plumed in their tartan 
array- 

Wizard. 

-Lochiel, Lochiel! beware of the day; 

For, dark and despairing, my sight I may 
seal, 

But man cannot cover what God would re¬ 
veal ; 

’Tis the sunset of life gives me mystical 
lore, 

And coming events casts their shadows be¬ 
fore. 

I tell thee, Culloden’s dread echoes shall 
ring 

With the bloodhounds that bark for thy 
fugitive king. 

Lo! anointed by heaven with the vials of 
wrath, 

Behold, where he flies on his desolate path ! 

Now in darkness and billows he sweeps 
from my sight: 

Rise, rise! ye wild tempests, and cover his 
flight! 

’Tis finish’d. Their thunders are hush’d 
on the moors; 

Culloden is lost, and my country de¬ 
plores. 

But where is the iron-bound prisoner? 
Avhere ? 

For the red eye of battle is shut in de¬ 
spair. 

Say, mounts he the ocean-wave, banish’d, 
forlorn, 

Like a limb from his country cast bleeding 
and torn ? 











FIRESIDE ENCYCLOPEDIA OF POETRY. 


324 


All no! for a darker departure is near; 

The war-drum is muffled and black is the 
bier; 

His death-bell is tolling. Oh! mercy, 
dispel 

Yon sight, that it freezes my spirit to 
tell! 

Life flutters convulsed in his quivering 
limbs, 

And his blood-streaming nostril in agony 
swims. 

Accursed be the fagots that blaze at his 
feet, 

Where his heart shall be thrown ere it 
ceases to beat, 

With the smoke of its ashes to poison tin- 
gale— 

Lochiel. 

-Down, soothless insulter! I trust not 

the tale: 

For never shall Albin a destiny meet 

So black with dishonor, so foul with re¬ 
treat. 

Though my perishing ranks should be 
strew’d in their gore, 

Like ocean-weeds heap'd on the surf- 
beaten shore, 

Lochiel, untainted by flight or by chains, 

While the kindling of life in his bosom 
remains, 

Shall victor exult, or in death be laid low, 

With his back to the field, and his feet to 
the foe! 

And, leaving in battle no blot on his 
name, 

Look proudly to heaven from the death¬ 
bed of fame. 

Thomas Campbell. 


Young Airly. 

Ken ye aught of brave Lochiel? 

Or ken ye aught of Airly? 

They have belted on their bright broad 
swords, 

And off and awa’ wi’ Charlie. 

Now bring me fire, my merry, merry men, 
And bring it red and yarely— 

At mirk midnight there flash'd a light 
O’er the topmost towers of Airly. 


What lowe is yon, quo’ the gude Lochiel, 
Which gleams so red and rarely? 

By the Clod of my kin, quo’ young Ogilvic, 
It’s my ain bonnie hame of Airly! 

Put up your sword, said the brave Lochiel, 
And calm your mood, quo’ Charlie; 

Ere morning glow we’ll raise a lowe 
Far brighter than bonnie Airly. 

Oh, yon fair tower’s my native tower! 

Nor will it soothe my mourning, 

Were London palace, tower, and town 
As fast and brightly burning. 

It’s no my hame—my father’s hame, 

That reddens my cheek sae sairlie— 

But my wife, and twa sweet babes I left 
To smoor in the smoke of Airly. 

Author Unknown- 


Charlie is my Darling. 

’Twas on a Monday morning, 
Right early in the year, 

That Charlie came to our town, 

The young Chevalier. 

An’ Charlie is my darling, 
My darling, my darling, 
Charlie is my darling, 

The young Chevalier. 

As Charlie he came up the gate, 
His face shone like the day ; 

I grat to see the lad come back 
That had been lang away. 

An’ Charlie is my darling, 
My darling, my darling, 
Charlie is my darling, 

The young Chevalier. 

Then ilka bonnie lassie sang, 

As to the door she ran. 

Our king shall hae his ain again, 
An’ Charlie is the man : 

For Charlie he’s my darling, 
My darling, my darling, 
Charlie he’s my darling, 

The young Chevalier. 

Out owre yon moory mountain, 

An’ down the craigv glen, 

Of naething else our lasses sing 
But Charlie an’ his men. 








HISTOR IGA L POEMS. 


325 


An’ Charlie he’s my darling, 

My darling, my darling, 
Charlie lie’s my darling, 

The young Chevalier. 

Our Highland hearts are true an’ leal, 
An’ glow without a stain ; 

Our Highland swords are metal keen, 
An’ Charlie lie’s our ain. 

An’ Charlie he’s my darling, 

My darling, my darling, 
Charlie lie’s my darling, 

The young Chevalier. 

James Hogg. 


Bonnie Prince Charlie. 

Cam ve by Athol, lad wi’ the philabeg, 

Down by the Tummel, or banks o’ the 
Garry; 

Saw ye our lads, wi’ their bonnets and j 
white cockades, 

Leaving their mountains to follow 
Prince Charlie? 

Follow thee! follow thee! wha wadna 
follow thee ? 

Lang hast thou loved and trusted us 
fairly: 

Charlie, Charlie, wha wadna follow 
thee, 

King o’ the Highland hearts, bonny 
Prince Charlie? 

I liae but ae son, my gallant young Donald ; 

, But if I had ten, they should follow 
Glengary. 

Health to M'Donnel, and gallant Clan-. 
Ronald, 

For these are the men that will die for 
their Charlie! 

Follow thee! follow thee! wha wadna 
follow thee? 

Lang hast thou loved and trusted us 
fairly: 

Charlie, Charlie, wha wadna follow 
thee, 

King o’ the Highland hearts, bonny 
Prince Charlie? 

I’ll to Lochiel and Appin, and kneel to 
them, 

Down by Lord Murray, and Roy of 
Kildarlie; 


Brave MTntosh he shall fly to the field 
with them; 

These are the lads I can trust wi’ my 
Charlie! 

Follow thee! follow thee! wha wadna 
follow thee? 

Lang hast thou loved and trusted us 
fairly: 

Charlie, Charlie, wha wadna follow 
thee, 

King o’ the Highland hearts, bonny 
Prince Charlie? 

Down through the Lowlands, down wi' the 
Whigamore! 

Loyal true Highlanders, down wi’ them 
rarely! 

Ronald and Donald, drive on wi’ the broad 
claymore, 

Over the necks of the foes of Prince 
Charlie! 

Follow thee! follow thee! wha wadna 
follow thee ? 

Lang hast thou loved and trusted us 
fairly: 

Charlie, Charlie, wha wadna follow 
thee, 

King o’ the Highland hearts, bonny 
Prince Charlie? 

James Hogg. 


Wae’S me for Prince Charlie; 

A wee bird came to our ha’-door; 

He warbled sweet and clearly ; 

And aye the o’ercome o’ his sang 
Was “ Wae’s me for Prince Charlie!” 
Oh, when I heard the bonny, bonny bird, 
The tears came drapping rarely ; 

I took my bonnet afF my head, 

For weel I lo’ed Prince Charlie. 

Quoth I: “ My bird, my bonny, bonny 
bird, 

Is that a tale ye borrow ? 

Or is’t some words ye’ve learn’d by rote, 
Or a lilt o’ dool and sorrow?” 

“Oh, no, no, no!” the wee bird sang, 

“ I’ve flown sin’ morning early ; 

But sic a day o’ wind and rain!— 

Oh. wac’s me for Prince Charli°! 











326 


FIRESIDE ENCYCLOPAEDIA OF POETRY. 


“ On hills that are by right his ain 
He roams a lonely stranger; 

On ilka hand he’s press’d by want, 

On ilka side by danger. 

Yestreen I met him in the glen, 

My heart near bursted fairly ; 

For sadly changed indeed was he— 

Oh, wae’s me for Prince Charlie ! 

“ Dark night came on; the tempest howl’d 
Out owre the hills and valleys; 

And where was’t that your prince lay 
down, 

Whase hame should be a palace ? 

He row’d him in a Highland plaid, 

Which cover’d him but sparely, 

And slept beneath a bush o’ broom— 

Oh, wae’s me for Prince Charlie!” 

But now the bird saw some red-coats, 

And he shook his wings wi’ anger: 

“ Oh, this is no a land for me— 

I’ll tarry here nae langer.” 

A while he hover’d on the wing, 

Ere he departed fairly ; 

But weel I mind the farewell strain, 

’Twas “ Wae’s me for Prince Charlie!” 

William Glen. 

The Tears of Scotland. 

Mourn, hapless Caledonia, mourn 
Thy banish’d peace, thy laurels torn! 

Thy sons, for valor long renown’d, 

Lie slaughter’d on their native ground; 
Thy hospitable roofs no more 
Invite the stranger to the door; 

In smoky ruins sunk they lie, 

The monuments of cruelty. 

The wretched owner sees afar 
His all become the prey of war; 

Bethinks him of his babes and wife, 

Then smites his breast, and curses life. 

Thy swains are famish’d on the rocks, 
Where once they fed their wanton flocks: 
Thy ravish’d virgins shriek in vain ; 

Thy infants perish on the plain. 

What boots it, then, in every clime, 
Through the wide-spreading waste of 
time, 

Thy martial glory, crown’d with praise, 
Still shone with undiminish’d blaze! 


Thy tow’ring spirit now is broke, 

Thy neck is bended to the yoke. 

What foreign arms could never quell, 

By civil rage and rancor fell. 

The rural pipe and merry lay 
No more shall cheer the happy day: 

No social scenes of gay delight 
Beguile the dreary winter night: 

No strains but those of sorrow flow, 

And naught be heard but sounds of woe, 
While the pale phantoms of the slain 
Glide nightly o’er the silent plain. 

O baneful cause! O fatal morn ! 

Accursed to ages yet unborn ! 

The sons against their father stood, 

The parent shed his children’s blood. 

Yet, when the rage of battle ceased, 

The victor’s soul was not appeased: 

The naked and forlorn must feel 
Devouring flames and murd’ring steel! 

The pious mother, doom’d to death, 
Forsaken wanders o’er the heath ; 

The bleak wind whistles round her head, 
Her helpless orphans cry for bread; 

Bereft of shelter, food, and friend, 

She views the shades of night descend; 
And, stretch’d beneath th’ inclement skies 
Weeps o’er her tender babes, and dies. 

While the warm blood bedews my veins, 
And unimpair’d remembrance reigns, 
Resentment of my country’s fate 
Within my filial breast shall beat; 

And, spite of her insulting foe, 

My sympathizing verse shall flow : 

“ Mourn, hapless Caledonia, mourn 
Thy banish’d peace, thy laurels torn.” 

Tobias Smollett. 


The Pompadour. 

Versailles !—Up the chestnut alley, 
All in flower, so white and pure, 
Strut the red and yellow lacqueys 
Of this Madame Pompadour. 

“ Clear the way !” cry out the lacqueys. 
Elbowing the lame and poor 
I Front the chapel’s stately porches,— 

| “ Way for Madame Pompadour!” 




HISTORICAL POEMS. 


327 


< Hd bent soldiers, crippled veterans, 

Sigh and hobble, sad, footsore, 

Jostled by the chariot-horses 
Of this woman—Pompadour. 

Through the lev£e (poet, marquis, 

Wistful for the opening door), 

With a rippling sweep of satin, 

Sail’d the queenly Pompadour. 

Sighs by dozens, as she proudly 
Glides, so confident and sure, 

With her fan that breaks through hal¬ 
berds— 

In went Madame Pompadour. 

Starving abb6, wounded marshal, 
Speculator, lean and poor, 

Cringe and shrink before the creatures 
Of this harlot Pompadour. 

“ Pose in sunshine! Summer lily !” 

Cries a poet at the door, 

Squeezed and trampled by the lacqueys 
Of the witching Pompadour. 

“ Bathed in milk and fed on roses !” 

Sighs a pimp behind the door, 

Jamm’d and bullied by the courtiers 
Of this strumpet Pompadour. 

“ Rose of Sharon!” chants an abbe, 

Fat and with the voice of four, 

Black silk stockings soil’d by varlets 
Of this Rahab Pompadour. 

“ Neck so swan-like ,—Deci certe ! 

Fit for monarchs to adore!” 

“ Clear the way!” was still the echo, 

“ For this Venus—Pompadour.” 

Open !—with the jar of thunder 
Fly the portals,—clocks strike four; 
With a burst of drums and trumpets 
Come the king and Pompadour. 

George Walter Thornbury. 


Louis XV. 

TtiE king with all his kingly train 
Had left his Pompadour behind, 

And forth he rode in Senart’s wood, 

The royal beasts of chase to find. 

That day by chance the monarch mused, 
And, turning suddenly away, 


j He struck alone into a path 

That far from crowds and courtiers lay. 

He saw the pale green shadows play 
Upon the brown untrodden earth ; 

He saw the birds around him flit 
As if he were of peasant birth; 

He saw the trees that know no king 
But him who bears a woodland axe; 

He thought not, but he look’d about 
Like one who skill in thinking lacks. 

Then close to him a footstep fell, 

And glad of human sound was he, 

For, truth to say, he found himself 
A weight from which he fain would flee. 
But that which he would ne’er have 
guess’d 

Before him now most plainly came; 

The man upon his weary back 
A coffin bore of rudest frame. 

“Why, who art thou?” exclaimed the 
king, 

“ And what is that I see thee bear?” 

“ I am a laborer in the wood, 

And ’tis a coffin for Pierre. 

Close by the royal hunting-lodge 
You may have often seen him toil; 

But he will never work again, 

And I for him must dig the soil.” 

The laborer ne’er had seen the king, 

And this he thought was but a man, 
Who made at first a moment’s pause, 

And then anew his talk began : 

“I think I do remember now,— 

He had a dark and glancing eye, 

And I have seen his slender arm 

With wondrous blows the pickaxe ply. 

“ Pray tell me, friend, what accident 
Can thus have kill’d our good Pierre ?” 
“ Oh, nothing more than usual, sir, 

He died of living upon air. 

’Twas hunger kill’d the poor good man, 
Who long on empty hopes relied ; 

He could not pay gabell and tax. 

And feed his children, so he died.” 

The man stopp’d short, and then went, 
on,— 

“ It is, vou know, .a common thing ; 

Our children’s bread is eaten up 
By courtiers, mistresses, and king.” 











328 


FIRESIDE ENCYCLOPAEDIA OF POETRY. 


The king look’d hard upon the man, 

And afterward the coffin eyed; 

Then spurr’d to ask of Pompadour 
How came it that the peasants died. 

John Sterling. 

Warren’s Address. 

Stand ! the ground’s your own, my braves ! 
Will ye give it up to slaves? 

Will ye look for greener graves? 

Hope ye mercy still ? 

What’s the mercy despots feel ? 

Hear it in that battle-peal! 

Read it on yon bristling steel! 

Ask it,—ye who will. 

Fear ye foes who kill for hire? 

Will ye to your homes retire? 

Look behind you!—they’re afire! 

And, before you, see 
Who have done it! From the vale 
On they come!—and will ye quail ? 

Leaden rain and iron hail 
Let their welcome be! 

In the God of battles trust! 

Die we may,—and die we must: 

But, oh where can dust to dust 
Be consign’d so well, 

As where Heaven its dews shall shed 
On the martyr’d patriot’s bed, 

And the rocks shall raise their head 
Of his deeds to tell? 

John Pierpont. 

Paul Revere’s Ride. 

Listen, my children, and you shall hear 
Of the midnight ride of Paul Revere, 

On the eighteenth of April, in Seventy- 
five ; 

Hardly a man is now alive 
Who remembers that famous day and 
year. 

He said to his friend, “ If the British 
march 

By land or sea from the town to-night, 
Hang a lantern aloft in the belfry arch 
Of the North Church tower as a signal 
light,— 

One, if by land, and two, if by sea; 

And I on the opposite shore will be, 


Ready to ride and spread the alarm 
Through every Middlesex village and 
farm, 

For the country folk to be up and to arm.” 

Then he said “ Good-night,” and with 
muffled oar 

Silently row’d to the Charlestown shore, 
Just as the moon rose over the bay, 

Where swinging wide at her moorings lay 
The Somerset, British man-of-war ; 

A phantom ship, with each mast and 
spar 

Across the moon like a prison bar, 

And a huge black hulk, that was magni¬ 
fied 

By its own reflection in the tide. 

Meanwhile his friend, through alley and 
street, 

Wanders and watches with eager ears, 

Till in the silence around him he hears 
The muster of men at the barrack-door, 
The sound of arms, and the tramp of feet, 
And the measured tread of the grenadiers 
Marching down to their boats on the 
shore. 

Then he climb’d the tower of the Old 
North Church, 

By the wooden stairs, with stealthy tread, 
To the belfry-chamber overhead, 

And startled the pigeons from their perch 
On the sombre rafters, that round him 
made 

Masses and moving shapes of shade,—• 

By the trembling ladder, steep and tall, 

To the highest window in the wall, 

Where he paused to listen and look down 
A moment on the roofs of the town, 

And the moonlight flowing over all. 

Beneath, in the churchyard, lay the dead, 
In their night-encampment on the hill, 
Wrapp’d in silence so deep and still 
That he could hear, like a sentinel’s tread, 
The watchful night-wind, as it went 
Creeping along from tent to tent, 

And seeming to whisper, “ All is well!” 

A moment only he feels the spell 
Of the place and the hour, and the secret 
dread 

i Of the lonely belfry and the dead; 





HISTORICAL POEMS. 


329 


For suddenly all his thoughts are bent 
On a shadowy something far away, 

Where the river widens to meet the bay,— 
A line of black that bends and floats 
On the rising tide like a bridge of boats. 

Meanwhile, impatient to mount and ride, 
Booted and spurr’d, with a heavy stride 
On the opposite shore walk’d Paul Re¬ 
vere. 

Now he patted his horse’s side, 

Now gazed at the landscape far and near, 
Then, impetuous, stamp’d the earth, 

And turn’d and tighten’d his saddle- 
girth ; 

But mostly he watch’d with eager search 
The belfry-tower of the Old North Church, 
As it rose above the graves on the hill, 
Lonely and spectral and sombre and still. 
And lo! as he looks, on the belfry’s height 
A glimmer, and then a gleam of light! 

He springs to the saddle, the bridle he 
turns, 

But lingers and gazes, till full on his sight 
A second lamp in the belfry burns. 

A hurry of hoofs in a village street, 

A shape in the moonlight, a bulk in the 
dark, 

And beneath, from the pebbles, in passing, 
a spark 

Struck out by a steed flying fearless and 
fleet: 

That was all; and yet, through the gloom 
and the light, 

The fate of a nation was riding that night; 
And the spark struck out by that steed in 
his flight 

Kindled the land into flame with its heat. 

He has left the village and mounted the 
steep, 

And beneath him, tranquil and broad and 
deep, 

Is the Mystic, meeting the ocean tides, 

And under the alders that skirt its edge, 
Now soft on the sand, now loud on the 
ledge, 

Is heard the tramp of his steed as he 
rides. 

It was twelve by the village clock 
When he cross’d the bridge into Medford 
town. 


He heard the crowing of the cock, 

And the barking of the farmer’s dog, 

And felt the damp of the river fog, 

That rises after the sun goes down. 

! It was one by the village clock 
i When he galloped into Lexington. 

I He saw the gilded weathercock 
' Swim in the moonlight as he pass’d, 

And the meeting-house windows, blank 
and bare. 

Gaze at him with a spectral glare, 

As if they already stood aghast 

At the bloody work they would look upon. 

It was two by the village clock 
When he came to the bridge in Concord 
town. 

He heard the bleating of the flock, 

And the twitter of birds among the trees, 
And felt the breath of the morning breeze 
Blowing over the meadows brown. 

And one was safe and asleep iii his bed 
Who at the bridge would be first to fall, 
Who that day would be lying dead, 
Pierced by a British musket-ball. 

You know the rest; in the books you have 
read, 

How the British regulars fired and fled,— 
How the farmers gave them ball for ball, 
From behind each fence and farmyard wall. 
Chasing the red-coats down the lane, 

Then crossing the fields to emerge again 
Under the trees at the turn of the road, 
And only pausing to fire and load. 

So through the night rode Paul Revere, 
And so through the night went his cry of 
alarm 

To every Middlesex village and farm,— 

A cry of defiance, and not of fear, 

A voice in the darkness, a knock at the 
door, 

And a word that shall echo for evermore! 
For, borne on the night-wind of the Past, 
Through all our history, to the last, 

In the hour of darkness, and peril, and 
need, 

The people will waken and listen to hear 
The hurrying hoof-beats of that steed, 

And the midnight message of Paul Re¬ 
vere. 

lIlSNKY WADSW015TU LoM.Flil.LOW. 





330 


FIRESIDE ENCYCLOPAEDIA OF POETRY. 


Song of Marion’s Men. 

Our band is few, but true and tried, 

Our leader frank and bold; 

The British soldier trembles 
When Marion’s name is told. 

Our fortress is the good greenwood, 

Our tent the cypress tree; 

We know the forest round us, 

As seamen know the sea; 

We know its walls of thorny vines, 

Its glades of reedy grass, 

Its safe and silent islands 
Within the dark morass. 

Woe to the English soldiery 
That little dread us near! 

On them shall light at midnight 
A strange and sudden fear; 

When, waking to their tents on fire, 

They grasp their arms in vain, 

And they who stand to face us 
Are beat to earth again ; 

And they who fly in terror deem 
A mighty host behind, 

And hear the tramp of thousands 
Upon the hollow wind. 

Then sweet the hour that brings release 
From danger and from toil: 

We talk the battle over, 

And share the battle’s spoil. 

'flic woodland rings with laugh and shout, 
As if a hunt were up, 

And woodland flowers are gather’d 
To crown the soldier’s cup. 

With merry songs we mock the wind 
That in the pine-top grieves, 

And slumber long and sweetly 
On beds of oaken leaves. 

Well knows the fair and friendly moon 
The band that Marion leads— 

The glitter of their rifles, 

The scampering of their steeds. 

Tis life to guide the fiery barb 
Across the moonlight plain ; 

Tis life to feel the night-wind 
That lifts his tossing mane. 

A moment in the British camp— 

A moment—and away 
Back to the pathless forest, 

Before the peep of day. 


Grave men there are by broad Santee, 
Grave men with hoary hairs; 

Their hearts are all with Marion, 

For Marion are their prayers. 

And lovely ladies greet our band 
With kindliest welcoming, 

With smiles like those of summer, 
And tears like those of spring. 

For them we wear these trusty arms, 
And lay them down no more 
Till we have driven the Briton 
For ever from our shore. 

William Cullen Bryant. 

Carmen Belli cosum. 

In their ragged regimentals, 

Stood the old Continentals, 

Yielding not, 

When the grenadiers were lunging, 
And like hail fell the plunging 
Cannon-shot; 

When the files 
Of the isles, 

From the smoky night encampment/ 
Bore the banner of the rampant 
Unicorn, 

And grummer, grummer, grummer, 
Roll’d the roll of the drummer, 
Through the morn! 

Then with eyes to the front all, 

And with guns horizontal, 

Stood our sires; 

And the balls whistled deadly, 

And in streams flashing redly 
Blazed the fires; 

As the roar 
On the shore 

Swept the strong battle-breakers 
O’er the green-sodded acres 
Of the plain: 

And louder, louder, louder, 

Crack’d the black gunpowder, 
Crack’d amain! 

Now like smiths at their forges 
Work’d the red St. George’s 
Cannoneers, 

And the “ villainous saltpetre ” 

Rang a fierce discordant metre 
Round their ears; 






HISTORICAL POEMS. 


331 


As the swift 
Storm-drift 

With hot sweeping anger, 

Caine the horseguards’ clangor 
On our flanks; 

Then higher, higher, higher, 

Burn’d the old-fashion’d fire 
Through the ranks! 

Then the old-fashion’d colonel 
Gallop’d through the white infernal 
Powder-cloud; 

And his broad sword was swinging, 
And his brazen throat was ringing 
Trumpet loud. 

Then the blue 
Bullets flew, 

And the trooper-jackets redden 
At the touch of the leaden 
Rifle-breath; 

And rounder, rounder, rounder 
Roar’d the iron six-pounder, 

Hurling death! 

Guy Humphrey McMaster. 


La Tricoteuse. 

The fourteenth of July had come, 

And round the guillotine 

The thieves and beggars, rank by rank, 
Moved the red flags between. 

A crimson heart, upon a pole,— 

The long march had begun ; 

But still the little smiling child 
Sat knitting in the sun. 

The red caps of those men of France 
Shook like a poppy-field ; 

Three women’s heads, with gory hair, 
The standard-bearers wield. 

Cursing, with song and battle-hymn, 
Five butchers dragg’d a gun ; 

Yet still the little maid sat there, 
A-knitting in the sun. 

An axe was painted on the flags, 

A broken throne and crown, 

A ragged coat, upon a lance, 

Hung in foul black shreds down. 

“ More heads !” the seething rabble cry, 
And now the drums begun ; 

But still the little fair-hair’d child 
Sat knitting in the sun. 


And every time a head roll’d off, 

They roll like winter seas, 

And, with a tossing up of caps, 

Shouts shook the Tuileries. 

Whizz—went the heavy chopper down, 
And then the drums begun ; 

But still the little smiling child 
Sat knitting in the sun. 

The Jacobins, ten thousand strong, 

And every man a sword ; 

The red caps, with the tricolors, 

Led on the noisy horde. 

“ The Sans Culottes to-day are strong,” 

The gossips say, and run; 

But still the little maid sits there, 
A-knitting in the sun. 

Then the slow death-cart moved along; 
And, singing patriot songs, 

A pale, doom’d poet bowing comes 
! And cheers the swaying throngs. 

Oh, when the axe swept shining down, 
The mad drums all begun ; 

But, smiling still, the little child 
Sat knitting in the sun. 

I “ Le marquis,” linen snowy white, 

The powder in his hair, 

Waving his scented handkerchief, 

Looks down with careless stare. 

A whirr, a chop—another head— 

Hurrah ! the work’s begun; 

But still the little child sat there, 
A-knitting in the sun. 

A stir, and through the parting crowd 
The people’s friends are come ; 
l Marat and Robespierre —“ Vi vat! 
i Roll thunder from the drum.” 

! The one a wild beast’s hungry eye, 

Hair tangled—hark ! a gun !— 

The other kindly kiss’d the child 
A-knitting in the sun. 

“And why not work all night?” the child 
Said to the knitters there. 

Oh how the furies shook their sides. 

And toss’d their grizzled hair ! 

Then clapp’d a bonnet rouge on her, 

And cried, “ ’Tis well begun !” 

And laugh’d to see the little child 
Knit, smiling in the sun. 

I George Walter Tiior.vbury. 










FIRESIDE ENCYCLOPAEDIA OF POETRY 


332 


FRANCE: AN ODE. 

February, 1797 . 

V E Clouds! that far above me float and 
pause, 

Whose pathless march no mortal may 
control! 

Ye Ocean-Waves ! that, wheresoe’er ye 
roll, 

Yield homage only to eternal laws ! 

Ye Woods! that listen to the night- 
birds singing, 

Midway the smooth and perilous slope 
reclined, 

Save when your own imperious branches 
swinging 

Have made a solemn music of the wind! 

Where, like a man beloved of God, 

Through glooms, which never woodman 
trod, 

How oft, pursuing fancies holy, 

My moonlight w y ay o’er flowering weeds 
I wound, 

Inspired beyond the guess of folly, 

By each rude shape and wild unconquer¬ 
able sound! 

O ye loud Waves ! and O ye Forests high! 

And O ye Clouds that far above me 
soar’d! 

Thou rising Sun! thou blue, rejoicing 
Sky! 

Yea, everything that is and will be 
free! 

Bear witness for me, wheresoe’er ye be, 

With what deep worship I have still adored 

The spirit of divinest Liberty. 

When France in wrath her giant limbs 
uprear’d, 

And with that oath, which smote air, 
earth, and sea, 

Stamp’d her strong foot and said she 
would be free, 

Bear witness for me, how I hoped and 
fear’d ! 

With what a joy my lofty gratulation 

Gnawed I sang, amid a slavish band : 

And when to whelm the disenchanted 
nation, 

Like fiends embattled by a wizard’s wand, 
The Monarchs march’d in evil day, 
And Britain join’d the dire array ; 


Though dear her shores and circling 
ocean, 

Though many friendships, many youthful 
loves 

Had swoln the patriot emotion, 

And flung a magic light o’er all her hills 
and groves; 

Yet still my voice, unalter’d, sang de¬ 
feat 

To all that braved the tyrant-quelling 
lance, 

And shame too long delay’d and vain 
retreat! 

For ne’er, O Liberty! with partial aim 

I dimm’d thy light or damp’d thy holy 
flame; 

But bless’d the pasans of deliver’d 
France, 

And hung my head and wept at Britain’s 
name. 

“And what,” I said, “though Blasphemy’s 
loud scream 

With that sweet music of deliverance 
strove! 

Though all the fierce and drunken pas¬ 
sions "wove 

A dance more wild than e’er was maniac’s 
dream! 

Ye Storms, that round the dawning east 
assembled, 

The Sun was rising, though ye hid his 
light!” 

And when to soothe my soul, that hoped 
and trembled, 

The dissonance ceased, and all seem’d 
calm and bright; 

When France her front deep-scarr’d and 
gory 

Conceal’d with clustering wreaths of 
glory; 

When, insupportably advancing, 

Her arm made mockery of the warrior’s 
tramp ; 

While timid looks of fury glancing, 

Domestic Treason, crush’d beneath her 
fatal stamp, 

Writhed like a wounded dragon in his gore; 

Then I reproach’d my fears that would 
not flee; 

“ And soon,” T said, “shall Wisdom teach 
her lore 









HISTORIC AI POEMS. 


QQO 
»>*> > 


In the low huts of them that toil and 
groan 

And, conquering by her happiness alone, 

Shall France compel the nations to be 
free, 

Till Love and Joy look round, and call 
the Earth their own.” 

Forgive me, Freedom! oh, forgive those 
dreams! 

I hear thy voice, I hear thy loud la¬ 
ment, 

From bleak Helvetia’s icy cavern sent; 

\ hear thy groans upon her blood-stain’d 
streams! 

Heroes, that for your peaceful country 
perish’d, 

And ye that, fleeing, spot your mountain- 
snows 

With bleeding wounds ; forgive me that 
I cherish’d 

One thought that ever bless’d your cruel 
foes! 

To scatter rage and traitorous guilt, 

Where Peace her jealous home had built; 

A patriot race to disinherit 

Of all that made their stormy wilds so 
dear; 

And with inexpiable spirit 

To taint the bloodless freedom of the 
mountaineer— 

0 France, that mockest Heaven, adulterous, 
blind, 

And patriot only in pernicious toils, 

Are these thy boasts, Champion of human 
kind ? 

To mix with Kings in the low lust of 
sway, 

Yell in the hunt, and share the murder¬ 
ous prey; 

To insult the shrine of Liberty with 
spoils 

From freemen torn ; to tempt and to 
betray ? 

The Sensual and the Dark rebel in vain, 

Slaves by their own compulsion! In 
mad game 

They burst their manacles and wear the 
name 

Of Freedom, graven on a heavier chain ! j 


O Liberty ! with profitless endeavor 
Have I pursued thee, many a weary hour; 
But thou nor swell’st the victor’s strain, 
nor ever 

Didst breathe thv soul in forms of human 
power. 

Alike from all, howe’er they praise thee 
(Nor prayer, nor boastful name delays 
thee), 

Alike from Priestcraft’s harpy minions, 
And factious Blasphemy’s obscener 
slaves, 

Thou speedest on thy subtle pinions, 

The guide of homeless winds, and play¬ 
mate of the waves! 

And there I felt thee!—on that sea-cliff’s 
verge, 

Whose pines, scarce travell’d by the 
breeze above, 

Had made one murmur with the distant 
surge! 

Yes, while 1 stood and gazed, my tem¬ 
ples bare, 

And shot my being through earth, sea, 
and air, 

Possessing all things with intensest 
love, 

O Liberty! my spirit felt thee there. 

Samvel Taylor Coleridge. 

The Chronicle of the Drum. 
Part I. 

At Paris, hard by the Maine barriers, 
Whoever will choose to repair, 

Midst a dozen of woodeu-legg’d warriors, 
May haply fall in with old Pierre. 

On the sunshiny bench of a tavern, 

He sits and he prates of old wars, 

And moistens his pipe of tobacco 
With a drink that is named after Mars. 

The beer makes his tongue run the quicker 
And as long as his tap never fails, 

Thus over his favorite liquor 
Old Peter will tell his old tales. 

Says he, “ In my life’s ninety summers 
Strange changes and chances I’ve seen,— 
So here’s to all gentlemen drummers 
That ever have thump’d on a skin. 

“ Brought up in the art military 
For four generations we are ; 







384 


FIRESIDE ENCYCLOPAEDIA OF POETRY 


My ancestors drumm’d for King Harry, 
The Huguenot lad of Navarre; 

And as each man in life has his station, 
According as fortune may fix, 

While Cond6 was waving the baton, 

My grandsire was trolling the sticks. 

“ Ah ! those were the days for commanders! 

What glories my grandfather won, 

Ere bigots, and lackeys, and panders, 

The fortunes of France had undone! 

In Germany, Flanders, and Holland,—• 
What foeman resisted us then? 

No ; my grandsire was ever victorious, 

My grandsire and Monsieur Turenne. 

“ He died, and our noble battalions 
The jade, fickle Fortune, forsook; 

And at Blenheim, in spite of our Alliance, 
The victory lay with Malbrook. 

The news it was brought to King Louis; 

Corbleu ! how His Majesty swore, 

When he heard they had taken my grand¬ 
sire, 

And twelve thousand gentlemen more! 

“At Namur, Ramillies, and Malplaquet 
Were Ave posted, on plain or in trench; 
Malbrook only need to attack it, 

And aAvay from him scamper’d Ave 
French. 

Cheer up ! ’tis no use to be glum, boys,— 
’Tis Avritten, since fighting begun, 

That sometimes we fight and Ave conquer, 
And sometimes Ave fight and we run. 

“To fight and to run Avas our fate; 

Our fortune and fame had departed; 
And so perish’d Louis the Great,—- 
Old, lonely, and half broken-hearted. 
His coffin they pelted with mud, 

His body they tried to lay hands on ; 
And so having buried King Louis, 

They loyally served his great-grandson. 

“ God save the beloved King Louis! 

(For so he was nicknamed by some), 
And now came my father to do his 
King’s orders, and beat on the drum. 

My grandsire Avas dead, but his bones 
Must nave shaken, I’m certain, for joy, 
To hear daddy drumming the English 
From the meadoAvs of famed Fonte- 
noy. 


“ So Avell did he drum in that battle, 

That the enemy show’d us their backs ; 
Corbleu! it Avas pleasant to rattle 
The sticks, and to folloAV old Saxe! 

We next had Soubise as a leader, 

And as luck hath its changes and fits, 
At Rossbach, in spite of dad’s drumming, 
’Tis said we Avere beaten by Fritz. 

“ And now daddy crossed the Atlantic, 

To drum for Montcalm and his men; 
Morbleu ! but it makes a man frantic, 

To think Ave Avere beaten again ! 

My daddy he cross’d the wide ocean, 

My mother brought me on her neck, 
And Ave came in the year fifty-seven 
To guard the good town of Quebec. 

“ In the year fifty-nine came the Britons,— 
Full well I remember the day,— 

They knock’d at our gates for admittance, 
Their vessels Avere moor’d in our bay. 
Says our general, ‘ Drive me yon red-coats 
Away to the sea, Avhence they come!' 

So we march’d against Wolfe and his 
bull-dogs, 

We march’d at the sound of the drum. 

“ I think I can see my poor mammy 
With me in her hand as she Avaits, 

And our regiment, slowly retreating, 

Pours back through the citadel-gates. 
Dear mammy, she looks in their faces, 
And asks if her husband is come. 

—He is lying all cold on the glacis, 

And Avill never more beat on the drum. 

“ Come, drink, ’tis no use to be glum, boys; 

He died like a soldier—in glory ; 

Here’s a glass to the health of all drum-boys, 
And iioav I’ll commence my own story. 
Once more did Ave cross the salt ocean ; 

We came in the year eighty-one ; 

And the Avrongs of my father the drummer 
Were avenged by the drummer his son. 

“ In Chesapeake Bay Ave Avere landed ; 

In vain strove the British to pass ; 
Rochambeau our armies commanded, 

Our ships they Avere led by De Grasse. 
Morbleu ! hoAv I rattled the drumsticks, 
The day we march’d into YorktoAvn ! 
Ten thousand of beef-eating British 
Their weapons we caused to lay doAvn. 





HISTORIC A I. POEMS. 


“ Then homeward returning victorious, 

In peace to our country we came, 

And were thank’d for our glorious actions 
By Louis Sixteenth of the name. 

What drummer on earth could be prouder 
Than I, while I drumm’d at Versailles 

To the lovely court-ladies in powder, 

And lappets, and long satin tails ? 

“ The princes that day pass’d before us, 
Our countrymen’s glory and hope ; 

Monsieur, who was learn’d in Horace, 

D’Artois, who could dance the tight-rope. 

One night we kept guard for the Queen 
At Her Majesty’s opera-box, 

While the King, that majestical monarch, 
Sat filing at home at his locks. 

“ Yes, I drumm’d for the fair Antoinette ; 
And so smiling she look’d, and so tender, 

That our officers, privates, and drummers 
All vow’d they would die to defend her. 

But she cared not for us honest fellows, 
Who fought and who bled in her wars ; 

She sneer’d at our gallant Rochambeau, 
And turn’d Lafayette out of doors. 

“ Ventrebleu ! then I swore a great oath 
No more to such tyrants to kneel; 

And so, just to keep up my drumming, 
One day I drumm’d down the Bastile! 

Ho, landlord ! a stoup of fresh wine ; 
Come, comrades, a bumper we’ll try, 

And drink to the year eighty-nine, 

And the glorious Fourth of July ! 

“ Then bravely our cannon it thunder’d, 
As onward our patriots bore ; 

Our enemies were but a hundred, 

And we twenty thousand or more. 

They carried the news to King Louis, 

He heard it as calm as you please ; 

And like a majestical monarch, 

Kept filing his locks and his keys. 

“We show’d our republican courage, 

We storm’d and we broke the great gate 
in, 

And we murder’d the insolent governor 
For daring to keep us a-waiting. 

Lambesc and his squadrons stood by ; 

They never stirr’d finger or thumb ; 

The saucy aristocrats trembled 
As they heard the republican drum. 


335 


I “ Hurrah ! what a storm was a-brewing ! 
The day of our vengeance was come; 
Through scenes of what carnage and ruin 
Did I beat on the patriot drum ! 

Let’s drink to the famed tenth of August: 

At midnight I beat the tattoo, 

And woke up the pikemen of Paris 
To follow the bold Barbaroux. 

“With pikes, and with shouts, and with 
torches, 

March’d onward our dusty battalions ; 
And we girt the tall castle of Louis, 

A million of tatterdemalions ! 

We storm’d the fair gardens where tower’d 
The walls of his heritage splendid ; 

Ah, shame on him, craven and coward, 
That had not the heart to defend it! 

“ With the crown of his sires on his head, 
His nobles and knights by his side, 

| At the foot of his ancestors’ palace 
’Twere easy, methinks, to have died. 

But no: when we burst through his bar¬ 
riers, 

’Mid heaps of the dying and dead, 

In vain through the chambers we sought 
him,— 

He had turn’d like a craven and fled. 
****** 

“ You all know the Place de la Concorde ? 

’Tis hard by the Tuilerie wall ; 

’Mid terraces, fountains, and statues, 
There rises an obelisk tall. 

There rises an obelisk tall, 

All garnish’d and gilded the base is ; 
’Tis surely the gayest of all 
Our beautiful city’s gay places. 

“ Around it are gardens and flowers, 

And the cities of France on their 
thrones, 

Each crown’d with his circlet of flowers, 
Sits watching this biggest of stones ! 

I love to go sit in the sun there, 

The flowers and fountains to see, 

And to think of the deeds that were done 
there, 

In the glorious year ninety-three. 

“ ’Twas here stood the Altar of Freedom, 
And though neither marble nor gilding 








FI nils IDE ENCYCLOPAEDIA OF POETRY. 


ii.SG 


W as used in those clays to adorn 
Our simple republican building, 

Corbleu! but the Mere Guillotine 
Cared little for splendor or show, 

So you gave her an axe and a beam, 

And a plank and a basket or so. 

■‘Awful, and proud, and erect, 

Here sat our republican goddess; 

Each morning her table we deck’d 
With dainty aristocrats’ bodies. 

The people each day flock’d around, 

As she sat at her meat and her wine : 

’Twas always the use of our nation 
To witness the sovereign dine. 

“ Young virgins with fair golden tresses, 
Old silver-hair’d prelates and priests, 

Dukes, marquises, barons, princesses, 

Were splendidly served at her feasts. 

Ventrebleu ! but we pamper’d our ogress 
With the best that our nation could 
bring, 

And dainty she grew in her progress, 

And call’d for the head of a king ! 

“She call’d for the blood of our king, 

And straight from his prison we drew 
him; 

And to her with shouting we led him, 

And took him, and bound him, and slew 
him. 

• ‘ The monarchs of Europe against me 
Have plotted a godless alliance; 

I’ll fling them the head of King Louis,’ 
She said, ‘as my gage of defiance.’ 

“ I see him as now, for a moment, 

Away from his jailers he broke, 

And stood at the foot of the scaffold, 

And linger’d, and fain would have spoke. 

‘Ho, drummer! quick! silence yon Capet,’ 
Says Santerre, ‘with a beat of your 
drum;’ 

Lustily then did I tap it, 

And the son of St. Louis was dumb.” 

****** 

Part II. 

“The glorious days of September 
Saw many aristocrats fall; 

'Twas then that our pikes drunk the blood 
In the beautiful breast of Lamballe. 


Pardi, ’twas a beautiful lady! 

I seldom have look’d on her like; 

And I drumm’d for a gallant procession 
That march’d with her head on a pike. 

“ Let’s show the pale head to the Queen, 
We said—she’ll remember it well. 

She look’d from the bars of her prison, 
And shriek’d as she saw it, and fell. 

We set up a shout at her screaming, 

We laugh’d at the fright she had shown 
At the sight of the head of her minion; 
How she’d tremble to part with her 
own! 

“ We had taken the head of King Capet, 
We call’d for the blood of his wife; 
Undaunted she came to the scaffold, 

And bared her fair neck to the knife. 

As she felt the foul fingers that touch’d 
her, 

She shrunk, but she deign’d not to 
speak: 

She look’d with a royal disdain, 

And died with a blush on her cheek. 

| “ ’Twas thus that our country was saved: 
So told us the safety committee! 

But pshaw! I’ve the heart of a soldier, 

All gentleness, mercy, and pity. 

I loathed to assist at such deeds, 

And my drum beat its loudest of tunes 
As Ave offered to Justice offended 
The blood of the bloody tribunes. 

“Away with such foul recollections! 

No more of the axe and the block; 

I saw the last fight of the sections, 

As they fell ’neath our guns at Saint 
Rock. 

Young Bonaparte led us that day; 

When he sought the Italian frontier, 

I follow’d my gallant young captain, 

I follow’d him many a long year. 

“We came to an army in rags, 

Our general \\ r as but a boy, 

When Ave first saw the Austrian flags 
Flaunt proud in the fields of SaA r oy. 

In the glorious year ninety-six, 

We march’d to the banks of the Po; 

I carried my drum and my sticks, 
i And Ave laid the proud Austrian low. 






HISTORIC A L POEMS. 


“ In triumph we enter’d Milan, 

We seized on the Mantuan keys; 

The troops of the Eniperor ran, 

And the Pope he fell down on his 
knees.”— 

Pierre’s comrades here called a fresh 
bottle, 

And, clubbing together their wealth, 
They drank to the Army of Italy, 

And General Bonaparte’s health. 

The drummer now bared his old breast, 
And show’d us a plenty of scars, 

Rude presents that Fortune had made 
him 

In fifty victorious wars. 

“ This came when I follow’d bold Kleber— 
’Twas shot by a Mameluke gun; 

And this from an Austrian sabre, 

When the field of Marengo was won. 

“ My forehead has many deep furrows, 

But this is the deepest of all; 

A Brunswicker made it at Jena, 

Beside the fair river of Saal. 

This cross, ’twas the Emperor gave it 
(God bless him!); it covers a blow; 

I had it at Austerlitz fight, 

As I beat on my drum in the snow. 

“ ’Twas thus that we conquer’d and fought; 

But wherefore continue the story? 
There’s never a baby in France 

But has heard of our chief and our 
glory,— 

But has heard of our chief and our fame, 
His sorrow’s and triumphs can tell, 

How bravely Napoleon conquer’d, 

How bravely and sadly he fell. 

“ It makes my old heart to beat higher 
To think of the deeds that I saw r ; 

I followed bold Ney through the fire, 

And charged at the side of Murat.” 

And so did old Peter continue 
His story of tw’enty brave years ; 

His audience follow’d with comments—• 
Rude comments of curses and tears. 

He told how the Prussians in vain 
Had died in defence of their land; 

His audience laugh’d at the story, 

And vow’d that their captain w r as grand! 
22 


He had fought the red English, he said, 
In many a battle of Spain; 

They cursed the red English, ancf pray’d 
To meet them and fight them again. 

He told them how Russia was lost, 

Had winter not driven them back ; 

And his company cursed the quick frost, 
And doubly they cursed the Cossack. 
He told how the stranger arrived ; 

They wept at the tale of disgrace; 

And they long’d but for one battle more, 
The stain of their shame to efface ! 

“Our country their hordes overrun, 

We fled to the fields of Champagne, 
And fought them, though twenty to one, 
And beat them again and again ! 

Our warrior w r as conquer’d at last; 

They bade him his crown to resign; 

To fate and his country he yielded 
The rights of himself and his line. 

“ He came, and among us he stood, 
Around him we press’d in a throng, 

We could not regard him for weeping, 
Who had led us and loved us so long. 

‘ I have led you for twenty long years,’ 
Napoleon said ere he went; 

‘ Wherever w'as honor I found you, 

And with you, my sons, am content. 

“ ‘ Though Europe against me w r as arm’d. 

Your chiefs and my people are true; 

I still might have struggled with fortune, 
And baffled all Europe with you. 

“ ‘ But France would have suffer’d the 
while; 

‘ Tis best that I suffer alone: 

I go to my place of exile, 

To write of the deeds we have done. 

“ ‘ Be true to the king that they give you; 

We may not embrace ere we part ; 

But, General, reach me your hand, 

And press me, I pray, to your heart.’ 

“ He called for our old battle-standard; 

One kiss to the eagle he gave. 

‘ Dear eagle !’ he said, ‘ may this kiss 
Long sound in the hearts of the brave!’ 
’Twas thus that Napoleon left us; 

Our people were weeping and mute, 










338 


FIRESIDE ENCYCLOPAEDIA OF POETRY. 


And he passed through the lines of his 
guard, 

And our drums heat the notes of .salute. 

****** 

“ I look’d when the drumming was o’er, 

I look’d, but our hero was gone; 

We were destined to see him once more, 
When we fought on the mount of St. 
John. 

The Emperor rode through our files ; 

’Twas June, and a fair Sunday morn ; 
The lines of our warriors for miles 

Stretched wide through the Waterloo 
corn. 

“ In thousands we stood on the plain ; 

The red-coats were crowning the height; 
‘ Go scatter yon English,’ he said ; 

‘ We’ll sup, lads, at Brussels to-night.’ 
We answer’d his voice with a shout; 

Our eagles were bright in the sun; 

Our drums and our cannon spoke out, 

And the thundering battle begun. 

“ One charge to another succeeds. 

Like waves that a hurricane bears; 

All day do our galloping steeds 
Dash fierce on the enemy’s squares. 

At noon we began the fell onset; 

We charged up the Englishman’s hill; 
And madly we charged it at sunset— 

His banners were floating there still. 

“—Go to ! I will tell you no more ; 

You know how the battle was lost. 

Ho! fetch me a beaker of wine, 

And, comrades, I’ll give you a toast. 

I’ll give you a curse on all traitors, 

Who plotted our Emperor’s ruin; 

And a curse on those red-coated English, 
Whose bayonets help’d our undoing. 

‘ A curse on those British assassins 
Who order’d the slaughter of Ney; 

A curse on Sir Hudson, who tortured 
The life of our hero away. 

A curse on all Bussians—I hate them— 
On all Prussian and Austrian fry; 

And, oh ! but I pray we may meet them, 
And fight them again ere I die!” 


’Twas thus old Peter did conclude 
His chronicle with curses fit. 

He spoke the tale in accents rude, 

In ruder verse I copied it. 

Perhaps the tale a moral bears 

(All tales in time to this must come). 
The story of two hundred years 
Writ on the parchment of a drum. 

What Peter told with drum a Ml stick 
Is endless theme for poet’s pen : 

Is found in endless quartos thick, 
Enormous books by learned men. 

And ever since historian writ, 

And ever since a bard could sing, 

Doth each exalt, with all his wit, 

The noble art of murdering. 

We love to read the glorious page, 

How bold Achilles kill’d his foe, 

And Turnus, fell’d by Trojans’ rage, 

Went howling to the shades below. 

How Godfrey led his red-cross knights, 
How mad Orlando slash’d and slew; 
There’s not a single bard that writes, 

But doth the glorious theme renew. 

And while in fashion picturesque 
The poet rhymes of blood and blows, 
The grave historian, at his desk, 

- Describes the same in classic prose. 

Go read the works of Reverend Cox ; 

You’ll duly see recorded there 
The history of the selfsame knocks 

Here roughly sung by Drummer Pierre. 

Of battles fierce and warriors big, 

He writes in phrases dull and slow, 

And waves his cauliflower wig, 

And shouts, “ St. George for Marlborow!’“ 

Take Doctor Southey from the shelf, 

An LL.D.,—a peaceful man ; 

Good Lord, how doth he plume himself 
Because we beat the Corsican ! 

From first to last his page is fill’d 

With stirring tales how blows were, 
struck. 

He shows how we the Frenchmen kill’d, 
And praises God for our good luck. 




HISTORICAL POEMS. 


33 *) 


Some hints, ’Lis true, of polities 
The doctors give, and statesman’s art; 
Pierre only bangs his drum and sticks, 
And understands the bloody part. 

He cares not what the cause may be, 

Pie is not nice for wrong and right; 
But show him where’s the enemy, 

Pie only asks to drum and fight. 

They bid him fight,—perhaps he wins ; 

And when he tells the story o’er, 

The honest savage brags and grins, 

And only longs to fight once more. 

But luck may change, and valor fail, 

Our drummer, Peter, meet reverse, 
And with a moral points his tale— 

The end of all such tales—a curse. 

Last year, my love, it was my hap 
Behind a grenadier to be, 

And, but he wore a hairy cap, 

No taller man, methinks, than me. 

Prince Albert and the Queen, God wot! 

(Be blessings on the glorious pair!) 
Before us pass’d, I saw them not, 

I only saw a cap of hair. 

Your orthodox historian puts 
In foremost rank the soldier thus, 

The red-coat bully in his boots, 

That hides the march of men from us. 

He puts him there in foremost rank, 

You wonder at his cap of hair : 

You hear his sabre’s cursed clank, 

His spurs are jingling everywhere. 

Go to ! I hate him and his trade : 

Who bade us so to cringe and bend, 
And all God’s peaceful people made 
, To such as him subservient ? 

Tell me what find we to admire 
In epaulets and scarlet coats, 

In men because they load and fire, 

And know the art of cutting throats ? 

****** 
Ah, gentle, tender lady mine ! 

The winter wind blows cold and shrill, 
Come, fill me one more glass of wine, 
And give the silly fools their will. 


! And what care we for war and wrack, 
How kings and heroes rise and fall ? 
Look yonder ; in his coffin black, 

There lies the greatest of them all! 

To pluck him down, and keep him up, 
Died many million human souls ; 

’Tis twelve o’clock, and time to sup, 

Bid Mary heap the fire with coals. 

He captured many thousand guns ; 

He wrote “ The Great ” before his name: 
And dying only left his sons 
The recollection of his shame. 

Though more than half the Avorld was his, 
Pie died without a rood his own ; 

And borrow’d from his enemies 
Six foot of ground to lie upon. 

He fought a thousand glorious wars, 

And more than half the world was his, 
And somewhere, now, in yonder stars, 

Can tell, mayhap, what greatness is. 

William Makepeace Thackeray. 

HOHENLINDEN. 

On Linden, when the sun was low, 

All bloodless lay the untrodden snow, 

And dark as winter was the flow 
Of Iser, rolling rapidly. 

But Linden saw another sight 
When the drum beat, at dead of night, 
Commanding fires of death to light 
The darkness of her scenery. 

By torch and trumpet fast array’d, 

Each horseman drew his battle-blade, 

And furious every charger neigh’d 
To join the dreadful revelry. 

Then shook the hills with thunder riven; 
Then rush’d the steed to battle driven ; 
And, louder than the bolts of heaven, 

Far flash’d the red artillery. 

But redder yet that light shall glow 
On Linden’s hills of stainkd snow, 

And bloodier yet the torrent flow 
Of Iser, rolling rapidly. 

’Tis morn ; but scarce yon level sun 
Can pierce the war-clouds, rolling dun, 







340 


FIRESIDE ENCYCLOPAEDIA OF POETRY. 


Where furious Frank and fiery Hun 
Shout in their sulph’rous canopy. 

The combat deepens. On, ye brave, 

Who rush to glory, or the grave ! 

Wave, Munich! all thy banners wave, 
And charge with all thy chivalry! 

Few, few shall part where many meet! 
The snow shall be their winding-sheet; 
And every turf beneath their feet 
Shall be a soldier’s sepulchre. 

Thomas Campbell. 

The Battle of the Baltic. 

Of Nelson and the North 
Sing the glorious day’s renown, 

When to battle tierce came forth 
All the might of Denmark’s crown, 

And her arms along the deep proudly 
shone; 

By each gun the lighted brand 
In a bold determined hand, 

And the prince of all the land 
Led them on. 

Like leviathans afloat 

Lay their bulwarks on the brine; 

While the sign of battle flew 
On the lofty British line: 

It was ten of April morn by the chime: 

As they drifted on their path 
There was silence deep as death; 

And the boldest held his breath 
For a time. 

But the might of England flush’d 
To anticipate the scene; 

And her van the fleeter rush’d 
O’er the deadly space between. 

“Hearts of oak!” our captains cried; when 
each gun 

From its adamantine lips 

Spread a death-shade round the ships, 

Like the hurricane eclipse 
Of the sun. 

Again! again! again! 

And the havoc did not slack, 

Till a feeble cheer the Dane 
To our cheering sent us back;— 


Their shots along the deep slowly boom— 
Then ceased—and all is wail, 

As they strike the shatter’d sail, 

Or, in conflagration pale, 

Light the gloom. 

Out spoke the victor then, 
j As he hail’d them o’er the wave: 
j “Ye are brothers ! ye are men ! 
i And we conquer but to save: 

; So peace instead of death let us bring; 

1 But yield, proud foe, thy fleet, 
j With the crews, at England’s feet. 

And make submission meet 
To our king.” 

Then Denmark bless’d our chief, 

That he gave her wounds repose; 

And the sounds of joy and grief 
From her people wildly rose, 

As death withdrew his shades from the day 
While the sun look’d smiling bright 
O’er a wide and woeful sight, 

Where the fires of funeral light 
Died away. 

, Now joy, Old England, raise ! 

For the tidings of thy might, 

By the festal cities’ blaze, 

Whilst the wine-cup shines in light; 

And yet, amidst that joy and uproar, 

Let us think of them that sleep 
Full many a fathom deep, 

By thy wild and stormy steep, 

Elsinore! 

Brave hearts! to Britain’s pride 
Once so faithful and so true, 

On the deck of fame that died, 

With the gallant good Riou— 

Soft sigh the winds of heaven o’er their 
grave! 

While the billow mournful rolls, 

And the mermaid’s song condoles, 

Singing glory to the souls 
Of the brave! 

Thomas Campbbll. 

Incident of the French Camp 

You know we French storm’d Ratisbon: 

A mile or so away, 

On a little mound, Napoleon 
Stood on our storming-day; 











HISTORICAL POEMS. 


With neck out-thrust, you fancy how, 

Legs wide, arms lock’d behind, 

As if to balance the prone brow, 
Oppressive with its mind. 

Just as perhaps he mused, “ My plans 
That soar, to earth may fall, 

Let once my army-leader Lannes 
Waver at yonder wall,”— 

Out ’twixt the battery-smokes there flew 
A rider, bound on bound 
Full galloping; nor bridle drew 
Lentil he reach’d the mound. 

Then off there flung in smiling joy, 

And held himself erect 
By just his horse’s mane, a boy; 

You hardly could suspect 
(So tight he kept his lips compress’d, 
Scarce any blood came through), 

You look’d twice ere you saw Ins breast 
Was all but shot in two. 

“Well,” cried he, “Emperor, by God’s 
grace 

We’ve got you Ratisbon ! 

The Marshal’s in the market-place, 

And you’ll be there anon 
To see your flag-bird flap his vans 
Where I, to heart’s desire, 

Perch’d him !” The chief’s eye flash’d; 
his plans 

Soar’d up again like fire. 

The chief’s eye flash’d, but presently 
Soften’d itself, as sheathes 
A film the mother eagle’s eye 

When her bruised eaglet breathes: 

“ You’re Avounded !” “ Nay,” his soldier’s 
pride 

Touch’d to the quick, he said, 

“ I’m kill’d, sire!” And, his chief beside, 
Smiling, the boy fell dead. 

Robert Browning. 

The Contrast. 

Written under Windsor Terrace, the 
Day after the Funeral of George 
the Third. 

I saav him last on this terrace proud, 
Walking in health and gladness, 

Begirt with his court; and in all the crowd 
Not a single look of sadness. 


341 


Bright was the sun, and the leaves were 
green, 

Blithely the birds were singing; 

The cymbal replied to the tambourine, 
And the bells were merrily ringing. 

I have stood with the crowd beside his bier, 
When not a word was spoken ; 

But every eye was dim with a tear, 

And the silence by sobs was broken. 

I have heard the earth on his coffin pour 
To the muffled drum’s deep rolling, 
While the minute-gun, with its solemn 
roar, 

Drown’d the death-bells’ tolling. 

The time since he walk’d in his glory thus, 
To the grave till I saw him carried, 

Was an age of the mightiest change to us, 
But to him a night unvaried. 

We have fought the fight; from his lofty 
throne 

The foe of our land we have tumbled ; 
And it gladden’d each eye, save his alone, 
For whom that foe we humbled. 

j A daughter beloved, a queen, a son, 

And a son’s sole child, have perish’d ; 

I And sad was each heart, save only the one 
By which they were fondest cherish’d ; 

For his eyes were seal’d and his mind was 
dark, 

And he sat in his age’s lateness 
Like a vision throned, as a solemn mark 
Of the frailty of human greatness ; 

His silver beard, o’er a bosom spread 
Unvex’d by life’s commotion, 

Like a yearly lengthening snow-drift shed 
On the calm of a frozen ocean. 

O’er him oblivion’s waters boom’d 
As the stream of time kept flowing ; 

And we only heard of our king when 
doom’d 

To know that his strength was going. 

At intervals thus the waves disgorge, 

By weakness rent asunder, 

■ A piece of the wreck of the Royal George, 
For the people’s pity and wonder. 

Horace Smith. 






342 


FIRESIDE ENCYCLOPAEDIA OF POETRY. 


The Sack of Baltimore. 

The summer sun is falling soft on Carbery’s 

hundred isles, 

' * 

The summer sun is gleaming still through 
Gabriel’s rough defiles,— 

Old Innisherkin’s crumbled fane looks like 
a moulting bird, 

And in a calm and sleepy swell the ocean 
tide is heard: 

The hookers lie upon the beach; the chil¬ 
dren cease their play ; 

The gossips leave the little inn ; the house¬ 
holds kneel to pray,— 

And full of love and peace and rest, its 
daily labor o’er, 

Upon that cosy creek there lay the town of 
Baltimore. 

A deeper rest, a starry trance, has come 
with midnight there; 

No sound, except that throbbing wave, in 
earth, or sea, or air. 

The massive capes and ruin’d towers seem 
conscious of the calm ; 

The fibrous sod and stunted trees are breath¬ 
ing heavy balm. 

So still the night, these two long barques 
round Dunashad that glide 
Must trust their oars—methinks not few— 
against the ebbing tide— 

Oh, some sweet mission of true love must 
urge them to the shore,— 

They bring some lover to his bride who 
sighs in Baltimore! 

All, all asleep within each roof along that 
rocky street, 

And these must be the lover’s friends, with 
gently gliding feet— 

A stifled gasp! a dreamy noise! “The roof 
is in a flame!” 

From out their beds and to their doors 
rush maid and sire and dame, 

And meet upon the threshold-stone the 
gleaming sabres’ fall, 

And o’er each black and bearded face the 
white or crimson shawl,— 

The yell of “ Allah ! ” breaks above the 
prayer and shriek and roar : 

Oh, blessed God! the Algerine is lord of 
Baltimore! 


Then flung the youth his naked hand 
against the shearing sword; 

Then sprung the mother on the brand with 
which her son was gor’d ; 

Then sank the grandsire on the floor, his 
grand-babes clutching wild; 

Then fled the maiden, moaning faint, and 
nestled with the child ; 

But see! yon pirate strangled lies, and 
crushed with splashing heel, 

While o’er him in an Irish hand there 
sweeps his Syrian steel,— 

Though virtue sink, and courage fail, and 
misers yield their store, 

There’s one hearth well avenged in the 
sack of Baltimore ! 

Midsummer morn, in woodland nigh, the 
birds begin to sing, 

They see not now the milking maids,—de¬ 
serted is the spring! 

Midsummer day, this gallant rides from 
distant Bandon’s town, 

These hookers cross’d from stormy Skull, 
that skiff from Affadown ; 

They only found the smoking walls, with 
neighbor’s blood besprent, 

And on the strewed and trampled beach 
awhile they wildly went, 

Then dash’d to sea, and pass’d Cape Cleir, 
and saw five leagues before 
The pirate-galleys vanishing that ravaged 
Baltimore. 

Oh, some must tug the galley’s oar, and 
some must tend the steed,— 

This boy will bear a Scheik’s chibouk, and 
that a Bey’s jerreed. 

Oh, some are for the arsenals, by beauteous 
Dardanelles; 

And some are in the caravan to Mecca’s 
sandy dells. 

The maid that Bandon gallant sought is 
chosen for the Dey,— 

She’s safe,—she’s dead,—she stabb’d him in 
the midst of his Serai; 

And, when to die a death of fire, that noble 
maid they bore, 

She only smiled, O’Driscoll’s child,—she 
thought of Baltimore. 




HISTORICAL POEMS. 


343 


’Tis two long years since sunk the town 
beneath that bloody band, 

And all around its trampled hearths a 
larger concourse stand, 

Where high upon a gallows-tree a yelling 
wretch is seen,— 

’Tis Hackett of Dungarvan, he who steer’d 
the Algerine! 

He fell amid a sullen shout, with scarce a 
passing prayer, 

For he had slain the kith and kin of many 
a hundred there,— 

Some mutter’d of MacMurchadh, who 
brought the Norman o’er, 

Some curs’d him with Iscariot, that day in 
Baltimore. 

Thomas Osborne Davis. 


Song of the Cornish Men. 

A good sword and a trusty hand! 

A merry heart and true! 

King James’s men shall understand 
What Cornish lads can do. 

And have they fixed the where and when? 
And shall Trelawny die? 

Here’s twenty thousand Cornish men 
Will know the reason why! 

Outspake their captain, brave and bold, 

A merry wight was he: 

“ If London’s Tower were Michael’s hold, 
We’ll set Trelawny free! 

“ We’ll cross the Tamar land to land, 

The Severn is no stay— 

With one and all, and hand in hand, 

And who shall bid us nay? 

“And when we come to London wall,— 

A pleasant sight to view,— 

Come forth ! come forth, ye cowards all, 

To better men than you ! 

“ Trelawny he’s in keep and hold, 

Trelawny he may die; 

But here’s twenty thousand Cornish bold, 
Will know the reason why ! ” 

Robert Stephen Hawker. 


Lament for Glencoe. 

A E loyal Macdonalds, awaken ! awaken ! 

Why sleep ye so soundly in face of the 
foe? 

The clouds pass away, and the morning is 
breaking; 

But when will awaken the Sons of 
Glencoe ? 

They lay down to rest with their thoughts 
on the morrow, 

Nor dreamt that life’s visions were melt¬ 
ing like snow; 

But daylight has dawned in the silence of 
sorrow, 

And ne’er shall awaken the Sons of 
Glencoe. 

O, dark was the moment that brought to 
our shealing 

The black-hearted foe with his treacher¬ 
ous smile. 

We gave him our food with a brother’s 
own feeling; 

For then we believed there was truth in 
Argyle. 

The winds howl a warning, the red light¬ 
ning flashes, 

We heap up our fagots a welcome to 
show; 

But traitors are brooding on death near 
the ashes 

Now cold on the hearths of the Sons of 
Glencoe. 

My clansmen, strike boldly—let none of 
ye count on 

The mercy of cowards who wrought us 
such woe; 

The wail of their spirits, when heard on 
the mountain, 

Must surely awaken the Sons of Glen¬ 
coe. 

Ah! cruel as adders, ye stung them while 
sleeping! 

But vengeance shall track ye .wherever 
ye go. 

Our loved ones lie murdered; no sorrow 
nor weeping 

Shall ever awaken the Sons of Glen¬ 
coe. 

Mary Maxwell Campbell. 










344 


FIRESIDE ENCYCLOPAEDIA OF POETRY. 


CASABIANCA. 

The boy stood on the burning deck 
Whence all but he had fled; 

The flame that lit the battle’s wreck 
Shone round him o’er the dead. 

Yet beautiful and bright he stood, 

As born to rule the storm ; 

A creature of heroic blood, 

A proud, though child-like form. 

The flames roll’d on—he would not go 
Without his father’s word ; 

That father, faint in death below, 

His voice no longer heard. 

He call’d aloud, “ Say, father, say, 

If yet my task is done ?” 

He knew not that the chieftain lay 
Unconscious of his son. 

“ Speak, father,” once again he cried, 

“ If I may yet be gone!” 

And but the booming shots replied, 

And fast the flames roll’d on. 

Upon his brow he felt their breath, 

And in his waving hair, 

And look’d from that lone post of death 
In still, yet brave despair. 

And shouted but once more aloud, 

“My father, must I stay?” 

While o’er him fast, through sail and 
shroud, 

The wreathing tires made way. 

They wrapt the ship in splendor wild, 
They caught the flag on high, 

And stream’d above the gallant child 
Like banners in the sky. 

There came a burst of thunder-sound— 
The boy!—oh, where was he? 

Ask of the winds that far around 
With fragments strew’d the sea!— 

With mast, and helm, and pennon fair, 
That well had borne their part,— 

But the noblest thing which perish’d there 
Was that young, faithful heart! 

Felicia Dorothea Hemans. 


! the Angels of Buena Vista. 

Speak and tell us, our Ximena, looking 
northward far away, 

O’er the camp of the invaders, o’er the 
Mexican array, 

Who is losing? who is winning? are they 
far or come they near? 

Look abroad, and tell us, sister, whither 
rolls the storm we hear. 

“ Down the hills of Angostura still the 
storm of battle rolls; 

Blood is flowing, men are dying; God have 
mercy on their souls !” 

Who is losing? who is winning?—“Over 
hill and over plain, 

I see but smoke of cannon clouding through 
the mountain-rain.” 

Holy Mother! keep our brothers! Look, 
Ximena, look once more. 

“Still I see the fearful whirlwind rolling 
darkly as before, 

Bearing on, in strange confusion, friend 
and foeman, foot and horse, 

Like some wild and troubled torrent sweep¬ 
ing down its mountain-course.” 

Look forth once more, Ximena! “Ah ! the 
smoke has roll’d away ; 

And I see the Northern rifles gleaming 
down the ranks of gray. 

Hark! that sudden blast of bugles! there 
the troop of Minon wheels; 

There the Northern horses thunder, with 
the cannon at their heels. 

“ Jesu, pity! how it thickens! now retreat 
and now advance! 

Right against the blazing cannon shivers 
Puebla’s charging lance! 

Down they go, the brave young riders; 
horse and foot together fall: 

Like a ploughshare in the fallow, through 
them ploughs the Northern ball.” 

Nearer came the storm and nearer, rolling 
fast and frightful on : 

Speak, Ximena, speak and tell us, who has 
lost, and who has won? 

“Alas! alas! I know not; friend and foe 
together fall, 

O’er the dying rush the living; pray, my 
sisters, for them all! 







i 


HISTORICAL POEMS. 


34 -') 


“ Lo! the wind the smoke is lifting: 
Blessed Mother, save my brain ! 

I can see the wounded crawling slowly out 
from heaps of slain. 

Now they stagger, blind and bleeding; now 
they fall, and strive to rise; 

Hasten, sisters, haste and save them, lest 
they die before our eyes! 

“O my heart’s love! O mv dear one! lay 
thy poor head on my knee: 

Dost thou know the lips that kiss thee? 
Canst thou hear me? canst thou 
see? 

O my husband, brave and gentle! O my 
Bernal, look once more 

On the blessed cross before thee! Mercy! 
mercy ! all is o’er!” 

Dry thy tears, my poor Ximena; lay thy 
dear one down to rest; 

Let his hands be meekly folded, lay the 
cross upon his breast; 

Let his dirge be sung hereafter, and his 
funeral masses said; 

To-day, thou poor bereaved one, the living 
ask thy aid. 

Close beside her, faintly moaning, fair and 
young, a soldier lay, 

Torn with shot and pierced with lances, 
bleeding slow his life away ; 

But, as tenderly before him the lorn 
Ximena knelt, 

She saw the Northern eagle shining on his 
pistol-belt. 

With a stifled cry of horror straight she 
turn’d away her head ; 

With a sad and bitter feeling look’d she 
back upon her dead ; 

But she heard the youth’s low moaning, and 
his struggling breath of pain, 

And she raised the cooling water to his 
parching lips again. 

Whisper’d low the dying soldier, press’d 
her hand and faintly smiled : 

Was that pitying face his mother’s? did 
she watch beside her child? 


All his stranger words with meaning her 
woman’s heart supplied; 

With her kiss upon his forehead, “ Moth¬ 
er !” murmur’d he and died ! 

“ A bitter curse upon them, poor boy, who 
led thee forth, 

From some gentle sad-eved mother, weep¬ 
ing, lonely, in the North !” 

8pake the mournful Mexic woman, as she 
laid him with her dead, 

And turn’d to soothe the living, and bind 
the wounds which bled. 

Look forth once more, Ximena ! “ Like a 
cloud before the wind 

Rolls the battle down the mountains, leav¬ 
ing blood and death behind ; 

Ah! they plead in vain for mercy; in the 
dust the wounded strive ; 

Hide your faces, holy angels! O thou 
Christ of God, forgive!” 

Sink, 0 night, among thv mountains! let 
the cool gray shadows fall; 

Dying brothers, fighting demons, drop thy 
curtain over all! 

Through the thickening winter twilight, 
wide apart the battle roll’d, 

In its sheath the sabre rested, and the can¬ 
non’s lips grew cold. 

But the noble Mexic women still their 
holy task pursued, 

Through that long, dark night of sorrow, 
worn and faint and lacking food; 

Over weak and suffering brothers, with a 
tender care they hung, 

And the dying foeman bless’d them in a 
strange and Northern tongue. 

Not wholly lost, O Father! is this evil 
world of ours; 

Upward, through its blood and ashes, 
spring afresh the Eden flowers; 

From its smoking hell of battle, Love and 
Pity send their prayer, 

And still thy white-wing’d angels hover 
dimly in our air. 

John Greexleaf Whittier. 










FIRESIDE ENCYCLOPAEDIA OF POETRY. 


34d 


Marco Bozzaris. 

At midnight, in hi? guarded tent, 

The Turk was dreaming of the hour 
When Greece, her knee in supplianee 
bent, 

."hould tremble at hi? power: 

In dream?, through camp and court, he 
bore 

The trophies of a conqueror; 

In dreams his song of triumph heard, 
Then wore hi? monarch's signet-ring, 

Then press'd that monarch’s throne—a 
king; 

A- wild his thoughts, and gay of wing, 

As Eden's garden bird. 

At midnight, in the forest ?hades, 

Bozzaris ranged his Suliote band, 

True as the steel of their tried blades, 
Heroes in heart and hand. 

T: re had the Per?ian’s thousands stood, 
There had the glad earth drunk their 
blood, 

On old Platsea's day; 

And now there breathed that haunted 
air 

The sons of sires who conquer’d there, 
With arm to strike, and soul to dare, 

As quick, as far, as they. 

A n hour pass'd on —the Turk awoke: 

That bright dream was his last: 

He woke, to hear his sentries shriek, 

“ To arms! they come! the Greek! the 
Greek!” 

He woke, to die 'midst flame, and smoke, 
And shout, and groan, and sabre-stroke, 
And death-shots falling thick and fast 
A? lightnings from the mountain-cloud; 
And heard, with voice as trumpet loud, 
Bozzaris cheer his band: 

■ ."trike, till the last arm'd foe expires; 
"trike, for your altars and your fires; 
Strike, for the green graves of your sires; 
God and your native land I” 

They fought, like brave men, long and 
well; 

They piled that ground with Moslem 
slain; 

They conquer’d—but Bozzaris fell, 
Bleeding at even- vein. 


Hi? few surviving comrades saw 
His smile when rang their proud hurrah, 
And the red field was won; 

Then saw in death hi? eyelid? close 
Calmly, a? to a night’s repose, 

Like flowers at set of sun. 

Come to the bridal chamber. Death. 

Come to the mothers, when she feels. 
For the first time, her first-born’s breath: 

Come when the blessed seals 
That close the pestilence are broke, 

And crowded cities wail its stroke; 

Come in consumption’s ghastly form. 

The earthquake-shock, the ocean-storm ; 
Come when the heart bears high and 
warm, 

With banquet-song, and dance and 
wine; 

And thou art terrible—the tear. 

The groan, the knell, the pall, the bier; 
And all we know, or dream, or fear 
Of agony, are thine. 

But to the hero, when his sword 
Has won the battle for the free, 

Thy voice sounds like a prophet's word. 
And in its hollow tones are heard 
The thanks of millions yet to be. 

Come, when his task of fame is wrought. 
Come, with her laurel-leaf, blood-bought 
Come in her crowning hour, and then 
Thy sunken eye’s unearthly light 
To him is welcome as the sight 
Of sky and stars to prison'd men ; 

Thy gra?p is welcome as the hand 
Of brother in a foreign land; 

Thy summons welcome as the cry 
That told the Indian isles were nigh 
To the world-seeking Genoese, 

When the land-wind, from woods of palm 
And orange-groves, and fields of balm, 
Blew o’er the Haytian seas. 

Bozzaris! with the storied brave 
Greece nurtured in her glory’s time, 
Rest thee—there is no prouder grave, 

Even in her own proud clime. 

She wore no funeral weeds for thee, 

2s or bade the dark hearse wave its plume, 
Like torn branch from death’s leafless tree, 
In sorrow’s pomp and pageantry, 

The heartless luxury of the tomb. 




HISTORICAL POEMS 


u: 


But she remembers thee as one 
Lor.g loved, and for a season gone : 

F<<r thee her poet's lyre is wreathed. 

Her marble wrought, her music breathed: 
F'.r thee -he rings the birth-day bell-. 

< )f thee her babes' first Lisping tells : 

For thine her evening prayer is -aid 
At palace couch and cottage bed; 

Her soldier. closing with the foe. 

Gives, for thy sake, a deadlier blow; 

His plighted maiden, when she fear' 

For him. the joy of her young years. 
Thinks of thy fate, and checks her tears; 

And she. the mother of thy boys. 
Though in her eye and faded cheek 
I' read the grief she will not speak. 

The memory of her buried joys. 

And even she who gave thee birth. 

Will, by their pilgrim-circled hearth. 

Talk, of thy doom without a -igh: 

For thou art Freedom's now. and Fame's. 
One of the few. the immortal names 
That were not born to die. 

FTTZ-GrEEXE H * T r F i tr 

MOXTEREY. 

We were not many—we who stood 
Before the iron sleet that day ; 

Yet many a gallant spirit would 
Give half his years if but he could 
Have with us been at Monterey. 

Now here, now there, the shot it hail'd 
In deadly drifts of fiery spray. 

Yet not a single soldier quail'd 
When wounded comrades round them 
wail’d 

Their dying shout at Monterey. 

And on—still on our column kept 
Through walls of flame its withering 
way; 

Where fell the dead, the living stept. 

Still charging on the guns which swept 
The slippery streets of Monterey. 

The foe himself recoil’d aghast, 

When, striking where he strongest lay. 
We swoop'd his flanking batteries past. 
And braving full their murderous blast. 
Storm’d home the towers of Monterey. 


Our banners on these turrets wave. 

And there our evening busies play : 
Where orange-boughs above their grave 
Keep green the memory of the brave 
Who fought and fell at Monterey. 

We are not many—we who press'd 
Beside the brave who fell that day— 
But who of us has not confess'd 
He'd rather share their warrior rest 
Than not have been at Monterey? 

Chisles Fe»>.> H' mux 


Ox THE EXTIXCTIOX OF THE 

Yexetiax Republic. 

Once did she hold the gorgeous East in 
fee; 

And was the safeguard of the West: the 
worth 

Of Venice did not fall below her birth. 

Venice, the eldest Child of Liberty. 

She was a Maiden City, bright and free : 

No guile seduced, no force could vio¬ 
late ; 

And. when She took unto herself a 
Mate. 

She must espouse the everlasting Sea. 

And what if she had seen those glorie? 
fade. 

Those title? vanish, and that strength de¬ 
cay ; 

Yet shall some tribute of regret be paid 

When her long life hath reach'd its fluai 
day: 

Men are we. and must grieve when evi;>. 
the Shade 

Of that which once was great i? pa."\l 
away. 

William Words woktii. 


The Relief of Luckxow. 

Oh. that last day in Lucknow fort! 

We knew that it was the last; 

That the enemy’s lines crept surely on, 
And the end was coming fast. 

To yield to that foe meant worse than 
death; 

And the men and we all worked on; 



348 


FIRESIDE ENCYCLOD/EDIA OF POETRY. 


It was one day more of smoke and roar, 
And then it would all be done. 

There was one of us, a corporal’s wife, 

A fair, young, gentle thing, 

Wasted with fever in the siege, 

And her mind was wandering. 

She lay on the ground, in her Scottish plaid, 
And I took her head on my knee; 

‘ When my father comes hame frae the 
plough,” she said, 

“ Oh ! then please wauken me.” 

She slept like a child on her father’s floor, 
In the flecking of woodbine-shade, 
When the house-dog sprawls by the open 
door, 

And the mother’s wheel is stayed. 

It was smoke and roar and powder-stench, 
And hopeless waiting for death ; 

And the soldier’s wife, like a full-tired 
child, 

Seemed scarce to draw her breath. 

1 sank to sleep; and I had my dream 
Of an English village-lane, 

And wall and garden ;—but one wild scream 
Brought me back to the roar again. 

There Jessie Brown stood listening 
Till a sudden gladness broke 
All over her face; and she caught my hand 
And drew me near as she spoke:— 

“ The Hielanders! Oh ! dinna ye hear 
The slogan far awa ? 

The McGregor’s. Oh ! I ken it weel; 

It’s the grandest o’ them a’! 

“ God bless the bonny Hielanders ! 

We’re saved ! we’re saved !” she cried; 
And fell on her knees; and thanks to God 
Flowed forth like a full flood-tide. 

Along the battery-line her cry 
Had fallen among the men, 

And they started back;—they were there 
to die; 

But was life so near them, then ? 

They listened for life; the rattling fire 
Far off', and the far-off roar, 


Were all; and the colonel shook his head, 
And they turned to their guns once more. 

But Jessie said, “The slogan’s done; 

But winna ye hear it noo, 

1 The Campbells are cornin’ ? It’s no a dream ; 
Our succors hae broken through !” 

We heard the roar and the rattle afar, 

But the pipes we could not hear; 

But the men plied their work of hopeless 
war, 

And knew that the end was near. 

It was not long ere it made its way,— 

A thrilling, ceaseless sound : 

It was no noise from the strife afar, 

Or the sappers under ground. 

It was the pipes of the Highlanders ! 

And now they played Auld Lang Syne. 

It came to our men like the voice of God, 
And they shouted along the line. 

And they wept, and shook one another’s 
hands, 

And the women sobbed in a crowd; 

And every one knelt down where he stood, 
And we all thanked God aloud. 

That happy time, when we welcomed them, 
Our men put Jessie first; 

And the general gave her his hand, and 
cheers 

Like a storm from the soldiers burst. 

And the pipers’ ribbons and tartan 
streamed, 

Marching round and round our line; 

And our joyful cheers were broken with 
tears, 

And the pipes played Auld Lang Syne. 

Robert T. S. Lowell. 

The Charge of the light Bri¬ 
gade. 

Half a league, half a league, 

Half a league onward, 

All in the valley of Death 
Rode the six hundred. 

“ Forward, the Light Brigade! 

Charge for the guns !” he said: 

Into the valley of Death 
Rode the six hundred. 







HISTORIC A h POEMS. 


“ Forward, the Light Brigade!” 

Was there a man dismay’d? 

Not though the soldier knew 
Some one had blunder’d : 

Their’s not to make reply, 

Their’s not to reason why, 

Their’s but to do and die: 

Into the valley of Death 
Bode the six hundred. 

Cannon to right of them, 

Cannon to left of them, 

Cannon in front of them 
Volley’d and thunder’d; 

Storm’d at with shot and shell, 
Boldly they rode and well, 

Into the jaws of Death, 

Into the mouth of Hell 
Rode the six hundred: 

Flash’d all their sabres bare, 

Flash’d as they turn’d in air, 
Sabring the gunners thei’e, 

Charging an army, while 
All the world wonder’d: 

Plunged in the battery-smoke, 

Right through the line they broke; 

Cossack and Russian 
Reel’d from the sabre-stroke 
Shatter’d and sunder’d. 

Then they rode back, but not— 

Not the six hundred. 

Cannon to right of them, 

Cannon to left of them, 

Cannon behind them 
Volley’d and thunder’d; 

Storm’d at with shot and shell, 
While horse and hero fell, 

They that had fought so well 
Came through the jaws of Death 
Back from the mouth of Hell, 

All that was left of them, 

Left of six hundred. 

When can their glory fade? 

Oh, the wild charge they made ! 

All the world wonder’d. 

Honor the charge they made! 

Honor the Light Brigade, 

Noble six hundred! 

Alfred Tennyson. 


849 

| Ail Quiet Along the Potomac 

“ All quiet along the Potomac,” they 
say, 

“ Except, now and then, a stray picket 

Is shot, as he walks on his beat to and 
fro, 

By a rifleman hid in the thicket. ’ 

’Tis nothing—a private or two now and 
then 

Will not count in the news of the battle; 

' Not an officer lost—only one of the men 

Moaning out, all alone, the death-rattle. 

* * * -* * 

All quiet along the Potomac to-night, 

Where the soldiers lie peacefully dream¬ 
ing; 

I Their tents, in the rays of the clear autumn 
moon 

Or the light of the watch-fire, are gleam¬ 
ing. 

A tremulous sigh of the gentle night- 
wind 

Through the forest-leaves softly is creep¬ 
ing, 

While stars up above, with their glittering 
eyes, 

Keep guard, for the army is sleeping. 

There’s only the sound of the lone sentry’s 
tread 

As he tramps from the rock to the foun¬ 
tain, 

And thinks of the two in the low trundle- 
bed 

Far away in the cot on the mountain. 

His musket falls slack; his face, dark and 
grim, 

Grows gentle with memories tender 

As he mutters a prayer for the children 
asleep— 

For their mother; may Heaven defend 
her! 

The moon seems to shine just as brightly 
as then, 

That night when the love yet unspoken 

Leaped up to his lips—when low-murmur 
ed vows 

Were pledged to be ever unbroken. 









350 


FIRESIDE ENCYCLOPAEDIA OF POETRY. 


Then, drawing his sleeve roughly over his 
eyes, 

He dashes off tears that are welling, 

And gathers his gun closer up to its 
place, 

As if to keep down the heart-swelling. 

He passes the fountain, the blasted pine 
tree, 

The footstep is lagging and weary; 

Yet onward he goes through the broad belt 
of light, 

Toward the shade of the forest so 
dreary. 

Hark! was it the night-wind that rustled 
the leaves ? 

Was it moonlight so wondrously flash¬ 
ing? 

It looked like a rifle—“Hal Mary, good¬ 
bye I” 

The red life-blood is ebbing and plash¬ 
ing. 

AH quiet along the Potomac to-night, 

No sound save the rush of the river; 

While soft falls the dew on the face of the 
dead— 

The picket’s off duty for ever! 

Ethel Lynn Beers. 


The Cumberland. 

Magnificent thy fate, 

Once Mistress of the Seas! 

No braver vessel ever flung 
A pennon to the breeze; 

No bark e’er died a death so grand; 
Such heroes never vessel manned; 

Your parting broadside broke the wave 
That surged above your patriot grave; 
Your flag, the gamest of the game, 
Sank proudly with you—not in shame, 
But in its ancient glory; 

The memory of its parting gleam 
Will never fade while poets dream; 

The echo of your dying gun 
Will last till man his race has run, 
Then live in Angel Story. 

Author Unknown. 


Barbara Frietchie. 

Up from the meadows rich with corn, 
Clear in the cool September morn, 

The cluster’d spires of Frederick stand 
Green-wall’d by the hills of Maryland. 

Bound about them orchards sweep, 

Apple and peach tree fruited deep, 

Fair as the garden of the Lord 

To the eyes of the famish’d rebel horde, 

On that pleasant morn of the early fall 
When Lee march’d over the mountain- 
wall,— 

Over the mountains winding down, 

Horse and foot, into Frederick town. 

Forty flags with their silver stars, 

Forty flags with their crimson bars, 

Flapp’d in the morning wind: the sun 
Of noon look’d down, and saw not one. 

Up rose old Barbara Frietchie then, 

Bow’d with her fourscore years and ten ; 

Bravest of all in Frederick town, 

She took up the flag the men haul’d 
down; 

In her attic window the staff she set, 

To show that one heart was loyal yet. 

Up the street came the rebel tread, 
Stonewall Jackson riding ahead. 

Under his slouch’d hat left and right 
He glanced: the old flag met his sight. 

“ Halt!”—the dust-brown ranks stood fast. 
“Fire!”—out blazed the rifle-blast. 

It shiver’d the window, pane and sash; 

It rent the banner with seam and gash. 

Quick, as it fell, from the broken staff 
Dame Barbara snatch’d the silken scarf. 

She lean’d far out on the window-sill, 

And shook it forth with a royal will. 

“ Shoot, if you must, this old gray head, 
But spare your country’s flag,” she said. 






HISTORICAL POEMS. 


351 


A shade of sadness, a blush of shame, 
Over the face of the leader came; 

The nobler nature within him stirr’d 
To life at that woman’s deed and word: 

“ Who touches a hair of yon gray head 
Dies like a dog ! March on !” he said. 

All day long through Frederick street 
Sounded the tread of marching feet: 

All day long that free flag tost 
Over the heads of the rebel host. 

Ever its torn folds rose and fell 
On the loyal winds that loved it well; 

And through the hill-gaps sunset light 
Shone over it with a warm good-night. 

Barbara Frietchie’s work is o’er, 

And the rebel rides on his raids no more. 

Honor to her! and let a tear 

Fall, for her sake, on Stonewall’s bier. 

Over Barbara Frietchie’s grave, 

Flag of Freedom and Union, wave! 

Peace and order and beauty draw 
Bound thy symbol of light and law ; 

And ever the stars above look down 
On thy stars below in Frederick town ! 

John Greenleaf Whittier. 

SHERIDAN’S RIDE. 

Up from the south, at break of day, 
Bringing to Winchester fresh dismay, 

The affrighted air with a shudder bore, 
Like a herald in haste to the chieftain’s 
door, 

The terrible grumble, and rumble, and 
roar, 

Telling the battle was on once more, 

And Sheridan twenty miles away. 

And wider still those billows of war 
Thunder’d along the horizon’s bar ; 

And louder yet into Winchester roll’d 
The roar of that red sea uncontroll’d, 
Making the blood of the listener cold, 

As he thought of the stake in that fiery fray, 
And Sheridan twenty miles away. 


But there is a road from Winchester town, 

A good broad highway leading down; 

And there, through the flush of the morn¬ 
ing light, 

A steed as black as the steeds of night 

Was seen to pass, as with eagle flight, 

As if he knew the terrible need ; 

He stretch’d away with his utmost speed; 

Hills rose and fell; but his heart was gay s 

With Sheridan fifteen miles away. 

Still sprang from those swift hoofs, thun¬ 
dering south, 

The dust, like smoke from the cannon’s 
mouth, 

Or the trail of a comet, sweeping faster 
and faster, 

Foreboding to traitors the doom of disaster. 

The heart of the steed and the heart of the 
master 

Were beating like prisoners assaulting 
their walls, 

Impatient to be where the battle-field calls; 

Every nerve of the charger was strain’d 
to full play, 

With Sheridan only ten miles away. 

Under his spurning feet, the road 

Like an arrowy Alpine river flow’d 

And the landscape sped away behind 

Like an ocean flying before the wind ; 

And the steed, like a bark fed with furnace 
ire, 

Swept on, with his wild eye full of fire. 

But, lo! he is nearing his heart’s desire ; 

He is snuffing the smoke of the roaring 
fray, 

With Sheridan only five miles away. 

The first that the general saw were the 
groups 

Of stragglers, and then the retreating 
troops; 

What Avas done ? what to do ? a glance 
told him both. 

Then striking his spurs with a terrible 
oath, 

He dash’d down the line, ’mid a storm of 
huzzas, 

And the wave of retreat check’d its course 
there, because 

The sight of the master compell’d it to 
pause. 







FIRESIDE ENCYCLOPAEDIA OF POETRY. 


With foam ami with dust the black charger j 
was gray; 

By the flash of his eye, and the red nos¬ 
tril’s play 

He seem’d to the whole great army to say, 

“ I have brought you Sheridan all the way 
From Winchester down, to save the day.” 

Hurrah ! hurrah for Sheridan ! 

Hurrah ! hurrah for horse and man ! 

And when their statues are placed on high, 
Under the dome of the Union sky, 

The American soldier’s Temple of Fame, 
There with the glorious general’s name 
Be it said, in letters both bold and bright: 

“ Here is the steed that saved the day 
By carrying Sheridan into the fight, 

From Winchester—twenty miles away!” 

Thomas Buchanan Read. 

Stonewall Jackson's Way. 

Come, stack arms, men; pile on the rails; 

Stir up the camp-fire bright 1 
No growling if the canteen fails: 

We’ll make a roaring night. 

Here Shenandoah brawls along, 

There burly Blue Ridge echoes strong, 

To swell the Brigade’s rousing song 
Of Stonewall Jackson’s Way. 

We see him now—the queer slouched hat, 
Cocked o’er his eye askew; 

The shrewd, dry smile; the speech so pat, 
So calm, so blunt, so true. 

The “Blue Light Elder” knows’em well: 
Says he, “ That’s Banks ; he’s fond of shell. 
Lord save his soul! we’ll give him— 
Well! 

That’s Stonewall Jackson’s Way. 


Silence! Ground arms! Kneel all! Caps 
off! 

Old Massa’s goin’ to pray. 

Strangle the fool that dares to scoff: 

Attention !—it’s his way. 

Appealing from his native sod, 

In forma pauperis to God : 

“ Lay bare Thine arm! Stretch forth Thy 
rod: 

Amen !”—That’s Stonewall’s Way. 

He’s in the saddle now. Fall in ! 

Steady ! the whole brigade. 

Hill’s at the ford, cut off; we’ll win 
His way out, ball and blade. 

What matter if our shoes are worn? 

What matter if our feet are torn ? 

Quick step ! we’re with him before morn : 
That’s Stonewall Jackson’s Way. 

The sun’s bright lances rout the mists 
Of morning; and, by George! 

Here’s Longstreet, struggling in the lists, 
Hemmed in an ugly gorge. 

Pope and his Dutchmen !—whipped before. 
“ Bay’nets and grape!” hear Stonewall roar. 
Charge, Stuart! Pay off Ashby’s score, 

In Stonewall Jackson’s Way. 

Ah, Maiden ! wait, and watch, and yearn. 

For news of Stonewall’s band. 

Ah, Widow! read, with eyes that burn, 
That ring upon thy hand. 

Ah, Wife, sew on, pray on, hope on ! 

Thy life shall not be all forlorn. 

The foe had better ne’er been born, 

That gets in Stonewall’s Way. 


John Williamson Palmer. 







Poems of Patriotism. 


The Star-Spangled Banner. 

Oh, say, can you see by the dawn’s early 
light 

What so proudly we hail’d at the twi¬ 
light’s last gleaming— 

Whose broad stripes and bright stars 
through the perilous fight, 

O’er the ramparts we watch’d, were so 
gallantly streaming? 

And the rocket’s red glare, the bombs 
bursting in air, 

Gave proof through the night that our flag 
was still there; 

Oh, say, does that star-spangled banner yet 
wave 

O’er the land of the free, and the home of 
the brave ? 


On that shore, dimly seen through the 
mists of the deep, 

Where the foe’s haughty host in dread 
silence reposes, 

What is that which the breeze, o’er the 
towering steep, 

As it fitfully blows, now conceals, now 
discloses ? 

Now it catches the gleam of the morning’s 
first beam, 

In full glory reflected, now shines on the 
stream ; 

’Tis the star-spangled banner; oh, long 
may it wave 

O’er the land of the free, and the home of 
the brave! 

And where are the foes who so vauntingly 
swore 

That the havoc of war and the battle’s 
confusion 
23 


A home and a country should leave us no 
more ? 

Their blood has wash’d out their foul 
footsteps’ pollution. 

No refuge could save the hireling and 
slave 

From the terror of flight, or the gloom of 
the grave; 

And the star-spangled banner in triumph 
doth wave 

O’er the land of the free, and the home of 
the brave. 

Oh, thus be it ever, when freemen shall 
stand 

Between their loved homes and the war’s 
desolation! 

Blest with victory and peace, may the 
heaven-rescued land 
Praise the Power that hath made and 
preserved us a nation. 

Then conquer we must, when our cause it is 
just; 

And this be our motto: “ In God is our 
trust 

And the star-spangled banner in triumph 
shall wave 

O’er the land of the free, and the home of 
the brave. 

Francis Scott Key. 

The American Flag. 

When Freedom from her mountain-height 
Unfurl’d her standard to the air, 

She tore the azure robe of night, 

And set the stars of glory there , 

She mingled with its gorgeous dyes 

The milky baldric of the skies, 

And striped its pure celestial white 

With streakings of the morning light: 

353 




854 


FIRESIDE ENCYCLOPAEDIA OF POETRY. 


Then from his mansion in the sun 
She call’d her eagle-bearer down, 

And gave into his mighty hand 
The symbol of her chosen land. 

Majestic monarch of the cloud ! 

Who rear’st aloft thy regal form, 

To hear the tempest-trumpings loud, 

And see the lightning lances driven, 

When strive the warriors of the storm, 
And rolls the thunder-drum of heaven— 
Child of the sun ! to thee ’tis given 
To guard the banner of the free, 

To hover in the sulphur-smoke, 

To ward away the battle-stroke, 

And bid its blendings shine afar, 

Like rainbows on the cloud of war, 

The harbingers of victory ! 

Flag of the brave ! thy folds shall fly, 

The sign of hope and triumph high, 

When speaks the signal trumpet-tone, 

And the long line comes gleaming on ; 

Ere yet the life-blood, warm and wet, 

Has dimm’d the glistening bayonet, 

Each soldier eye shall brightly turn 
To where thy sky-born glories burn, 

And as his springing steps advance 
Catch war and vengeance from the glance. 
And when the cannon-mouthings loud 
Heave in wild wreaths the battle-shroud, 
And gory sabres rise and fall 
Like shoots of flame on midnight’s pall, 
Then shall thy meteor glances glow, 

And cowering foes shall sink beneath 
Each gallant arm that strikes below 
That lovely messenger of death. 

Flag of the seas! on ocean wave 
Thy stars shall glitter o’er the brave ; 
When death, careering on the gale, 

Sweeps darkly round the bellied sail, 

And frighted waves rush wildly back 
Before the broadside’s reeling rack, 

Each dying wanderer of the sea 
Shall look at once to heaven and thee, 
And smile to see thy splendors fly 
In triumph o’er his closing eye. 

Flag of the free heart’s hope and home ! 

By angel hands to valor given ; 

Thy stars have lit the welkin dome, 

And all thy hues were born in heaven. 


For ever float that standard sheet! 

Where breathes the foe but falls before 

us, 

With freedom’s soil beneath our feet, 

And freedom’s banner streaming o’er us ? 

Joseph Rodman Drake. 


America. 

My country, ’tis of thee, 

Sweet land of liberty, 

Of thee I sing ; 

Land where my fathers died, 

Land of the pilgrim’s pride, 

From every mountain-side 
Let freedom ring. 

My native country, thee— 

Land of the noble, free— 

Thy name I love ; 

I love thy rocks and rills, 

Thy woods and templed hills ; 

My heart with rapture thrills 
Like that above. 

Let music swell the breeze, 

And ring from all the trees 
Sweet freedom’s song: 

Let mortal tongues awake ; 

Let all that breathe partake ; 

Let rocks their silence break.— 

The sound prolong. 

Our fathers’ God, to Thee, 

Author of liberty, 

To Thee we sing ; 

Long may our land be bright 
With freedom’s holy light; 

Protect us by Thy might, 

Great God, our King. 

Samuel F. Smith. 

Battle-Hymn of the Republic. 

Mine eyes have seen the glory of the 
coming of the Lord : 

He is trampling out the vintage where the 
grapes of wrath are stored ; 

He hath loosed the fateful lightning of 
His terrible swift sword: 

His truth is marching on. 








POEMS OF PATRIOTISM. 


.>.).) 


I have seen Him in the watch-fires of a 
hundred circling camps; 

They have builded Him an altar in the 
evening dews and damps ; 

I can read His righteous sentence by the 
dim and flaring lamps : 

Ilis day is marching on. 

I have read a fiery gospel writ in burnish’d 
rows of steel: 

“ As ye deal with my contemners, so with 
you my grace shall deal; 

Let the Hero, born of woman, crush the 
serpent with his heel, 

Since God is marching on.” 

He has sounded forth the trumpet that 
shall never call retreat; 

He is sifting out the hearts of men before 
His judgment-seat: 

Oh, be swift, my soul, to answer Him ! be 
jubilant, my feet! 

Our God is marching on. 

In the beauty of the lilies Christ was born 
across the sea, 

With a glory in His bosom that trans¬ 
figures you and me: 

As He died to make men holy, let us die to 
make men free, 

While God is marching on. 

Julia Ward Howe. 

-K >«- 

Rule, Britannia. 

When Britain first, at Heaven’s com¬ 
mand, 

Arose from out the azure main, 

This was the charter of the land, 

And guardian angels sang this strain : 

Rule, Britannia, rule the waves; 

Britons never will be slaves. 

The nations, not so blest as thee, 

Must in their turns to tyrants fall ; 

While thou shalt flourish, great and free, 
The dread and envy of them all: 

Rule, Britannia, rule the waves ; 

Britons never will be slaves. 

Still more majestic shalt thou rise, 

More dreadful from each foreign stroke: 


As the loud blast that tears the skies 
Serves but to root thy native oak : 

Rule, Britannia, rule the waves; 
Britons never will be slaves. 

Thee haughty tyrants ne’er shall tame; 

All their attempts to bend thee down 
Will but arouse thy generous flame, 

But work their woe, and thv renown. 
Rule, Britannia, rule the waves; 
Britons never will be slaves. 

To thee belongs the rural reign ; 

Thy cities shall with commerce shine: 
All thine shall be the subject main, 

And every shore it circles, thine : 

Rule, Britannia, rule the waves; 
Britons never will be slaves. 

The Muses, still with Freedom found, 
Shall to thy happy coast repair; 

Blest isle ! with matchless beauty crown’d, 
And manly hearts to guard the fair: 

Rule, Britannia, rule the waves; 
Britons never will be slaves. 

James Thomson. 


God Sa ve the King. 

God save our gracious king! 

Long live our noble king! 

God save the king! 

Send him victorious, 

Happy and glorious, 

Long to reign over us— 

God save the king! 

O Lord our God, arise! 

Scatter his enemies, 

And make them fall, 

Confound their politics, 

Frustrate their knavish tricks: 

On him our hopes we fix, 

God save us all! 

Thy choicest gifts in store 
On him be pleased to pour; 

Long may he reign. 

May he defend our laws, 

And ever give us cause, 

To sing with heart and voice— 
God save the king ! 

Henr'. Carev 
















FIRESIDE ENCYCLOPAEDIA OE POETRY. 


p>r,r. 


Men of England. 

Men of England! who inherit 
Rights that cost your sires their 
" blood! 

Men whose undegenerate, spirit 
Has been proved on field and flood !— 

By the foes you’ve fought uncounted, 

By the glorious deeds you’ve done, 

Trophies captured—breaches mounted— 
Navies conquer’d—kingdoms won ! 

Yet, remember, England gathers 
Hence but fruitless wreaths of fame, 

1 f the freedom of your fathers 
Glow not in your hearts the same. 

What are monuments of bravery 
Where no public virtues bloom ? 

What avail, in lands of slavery, 

Trophied temples, arch and tomb? 

Pageants!—Let the world revere us 
For our people’s rights and laws, 

And the breasts of civic heroes 
Bared in Freedom’s holy cause. 

Yours are Hampden’s, Russell’s glory, 
Sidney’s matchless shade is yours,— 

Martyrs in heroic story, 

Worth a hundred Agincourts! 

We’re the sons of sires that baffled 
Crown’d and mitred tyranny;— 

They defied the field and scaffold 
For their birthrights—so will we! 

Thomas Campbell. 


Ye Mariners of England. 

Ye Mariners of England 
That guard our native seas! 

Whose flag has braved, a thousand 
years, 

The battle and the breeze! 

Your glorious standard launch again 
To match another foe: 

And sweep through the deep, 

While the stormy winds do blow; 

While the battle rages loud and long 
And the stormy winds do blow. 


| The spirits of your fathers 
Shall start from every wave— 

For the deck it was their field of fame, 
And Ocean was their grave: 

Where Blake and mighty Nelson fell 
Your manly hearts shall glow, 

As ye sweep through the deep, 

While the stormy winds do blow; 

While the battle rages loud and long 
And the stormy winds do blow. 

Britannia needs no bulwarks, 

No towers along the steep ; 

Her march is o’er the mountain-waves. 
Her home is on the deep. 

With thunders from her native oak 
She quells the floods below— 

As they roar on the shore, 

When the stormy winds do blow ; 

When the battle rages loud and long, 
And the stormy winds do blow. 

The meteor flag of England 
Shall yet terrific burn ; 

Till danger’s troubled night depart, 

And the star of peace return. 

Then, then, ye ocean-warriors! 

Our song and feast shall flow 
To the fame of your name, 

When the storm has ceased to blow; 
When the fiery fight is heard no more, 
And the storm has ceased to blow. 

Thomas Campbell. 


Reveille. 

The morning is cheery, my boys, arouse! 

The dew shines bright on the chestnut 
boughs, 

And the sleepy mist on the river lies, 

Though the east is flushing with crimson 
dyes. 

A wake ! awake ! awake ! 

O’er field and wood and brake, 

With glories newly born, 

Comes on the blushing morn. 

Awake ! aivake ! 

You have dreamed of your homes and your 
friends all night; 

You have basked in your sweethearts’ 
smiles so bright; 






POEMS OF PATRIOTISM. 


357 


Come, part with them all for a while 
again,— 

Be lovers in dreams; when awake, be men, 
Turn out! turn out! turn out / 

You have dreamed full long I know, 
Turn out! turn out! turn out! 

The east is all aglow. 

Turn out! turn out! 

From every valley and hill there come 
The clamoring voices of fife and drum ; 
And out on the fresh, cool morning air 
The soldiers are swarming everywhere. 

Fall in ! fall in ! fall in ! 

Every man in his place. 

Fall in l fall in ! fall in ! 

Each with a cheerful face. 

Fall in ! fall in ! 

Michael O’Connor. 

The Conquered Banner. 

Furl that Banner, for ’tis weary, 

Round its staff ’tis drooping dreary : 

Furl it, fold it,—it is best; 

For there’s not a man to wave it, 

And there’s not a sw r ord to save it, 

And there’s not one left to lave it 
In the blood which heroes gave it, 

And its foes now scorn and brave it: 

Furl it, hide it,—let it rest! 

Take that Banner down! ’tis tattered ; 
Broken is its staff and shattered, 

And the valiant hosts are scattered 
Over whom it floated high ; 

Oh, ’tis hard for us to fold it, 

Hard to think there’s none to hold it, 
Hard that those who once unrolled it 
Now must furl it with a sigh ! 

Furl that Banner—furl it sadly; 

Once ten thousands hailed it gladly, 

And ten thousands wildly, madly, 

Swore it should forever wave— 
Swore that foemen’s swords could never 
Hearts like theirs entwined dissever, 

And that flag should wave forever 
O’er their freedom or their grave ! 

Furl it!—for the hands that grasped it, I 
And the hearts that fondly clasped it, i 


Cold and dead are lying low; 

And the Banner—it is trailing, 

While around it sounds the wailing 
Of its people in their woe; 

For though conquered, they adore it— 
Love the cold dead hands that bore it, 
Weep for those who fell before it, 
Pardon those who trailed and tore it; 
And oh, wildly they deplore it 
Now to furl and fold it so ! 

Furl that Banner! True, ’tis gory, 

Yet ’tis wreathed around with glory, 
And ’twill live in song and story 
Though its folds are in the dust! 
For its fame on brightest pages, 

Penned by poets and by sages, 

Shall go sounding down the ages— 

Furl its folds though now we must! 

Furl that Banner, softly, slowly; 

Treat it gently—it is holy, 

For it droops above the dead; 

Touch it not—unfold it never; 

Let it droop there, furled forever,— 

For its people’s hopes are fled. 

Abram J. Ryan. 

Its Hame, and irs Hame. 

It’s hame, and it’s hame, hame fain wad I 
be, 

An’ it’s hame, hame, hame, to my ain 
countree! 

When the flower is i’ the bud and the leaf 
is on the tree, 

The lark shall sing me hame in my ain 
countree; 

It’s hame, and it’s hame, hame fain wad I 
be, 

An’ it’s hame, hame, hame, to my ain 
countree! 

The green leaf o’ loyaltie’s beginning for to 
fa’, 

The bonnie white rose it is withering 
an’ a’; 

But I’ll water’t wi’ the blude of usurping 
tyrannie, 

An’ green it will grow in my ain countree. 

It’s hame, and it’s hame, hame fain w r ad I 

be, 

An’ it’s hame, hame, hame, to my ain 
countree 1 








358 


FIRESIDE ENCYCLOPAEDIA OF POETRY. 


There’s naught now frae ruin my country 
can save 

But the keys o’ kind Heaven to open the 
grave, t. 

That a’ the noble martyrs who died for 
loyaltie 

May rise again and fight for their ain 
countree. 

It’s hame, and it’s hame, hame fain wad I 

be, 

An’ it’s hame, hame, hame, to my ain 
countree! 

The great now are gane, a’ who ventured 
to save, 

The new grass is springing on the tap o’ 
their grave; 

But the sun thro’ the mirk blinks blythe in 
my ee: 

“ I’ll shine on ye yet in your ain countree.” 

It’s hame, and it’s hame, hame fain wad I 
be, 

An’ it’s hame, hame, hame, to my ain 
countree! 

Allan Cunningham. 

The Sun Rises Bright in France. 

The sun rises bright in France, 

And fair sets he; 

But he has tint the blythe blink he had 
In my ain countree. 

Oh, it’s nae my ain ruin 
That saddens aye my ee, 

But the dear Marie I left ailin’, 

Wi’ sweet bairnies three. 

My lanely hearth burn’d bonnie, 

An’ smiled my ain Marie; 

I’ve left a’ my heart behin’ 

In my ain countree. 

The bud comes back to summer, 

And the blossom to the bee, 

But I’ll win back—oh never 
To my ain countree. 

Oh, I am leal to high Heaven, 

Where soon I hope to be, 

x\n’ there I'll meet you a’ soon 
Frae my ain countree! 

Allan Cunningham. 


MY HEART’S IN THE HIGHLANDS. 

My heart’s in the Highlands, my heart is 
not here; 

My heart’s in the Highlands a-chasing the 
deer; 

Chasing the wild deer, and following the 
roe, 

My heart’s in the Highlands, wherever I go. 

Farewell to the Highlands, farewell to the 
North, 

The birthplace of valor, the country of 
worth: 

Wherever I wander, wherever I rove, 

The hills of the Highlands for ever I love. 

Farewell to the mountains high cover’d 
with snow; 

Farewell to the straths and green valleys 
below; 

Farewell to the forests and wild-hanging 
woods; 

; Farewell to the torrents and loud-pouring 
floods. 

My heart’s in the Highlands, my heart is 
not here, 

My heart’s in the Highlands a-chasing the 
deer. 

Chasing the wild deer, and following the 
roe, 

My heart’s in the Highlands, wherever I 
go. 

Robert Burns. 

Border Ballad. 

March, march, Ettrick and Teviotdale, 
Why the de’il dinna ye march forward in 
order? 

March, march, Eskdale and Liddesdale, 

All the blue bonnets are bound for the 
border. 

Many a banner spread, 

Flutters above your head, 

Many a crest that is famous in story. 

Mount and make ready, then, 

Sons of the mountain-glen, 

Fight for the Queen and our old Scottish 
glory. 

Come from the hills where your hirsels are 
grazing, 

Come from the glen of the buck and the 
roe; 






POEMS OF PATRIOTISM. 


359 


Come to the crag where the beacon is 
blazing, 

Come with the buckler, the lance, and 
the bow. 

Trumpets are sounding, 
War-steeds are bounding, 

Stand to your arms and march in good 
order, 

England shall many a day 
Tell of the bloody fray, 

When the blue bonnets came over the 
border. 

Sir Walter Scott. 

Pibroch of Donuil Dhu. 

Pibroch of Donuil Dhu, 

Pibroch of Donuil, 

Wake thy wild voice anew, 

Summon Clan-Conuil. 

Come away, come away, 

Hark to the summons! 

Come in your war-array, 

Gentles and commons. 

Come from the deep glen, and 
From mountain so rocky, 

The war-pipe and pennon 
Are at Inverlochy. 

Come every hill-plaid, and 
True heart that wears one, 

Come every steel blade, and 
Strong hand that bears one. 

Leave untended the herd, 

The flock without shelter; 

Leave the corpse uninterr’d, 

The bride at the altar; 

Leave the deer, leave the steer, 

Leave nets and barges: 

Come with your fighting gear, 
Broadswords and targes. 

Come as the winds come, when 
Forests are rended; 

Come as the waves come, when 
Navies are stranded: 

Faster come, faster come, 

Faster and faster, 

Chief, vassal, page, and groom, 

Tenant and master. 

Fast they come, fast they come; 

See how they gather! 


Wide waves the eagle plume, 

Blended with heather. 

Cast your plaids, draw your blades, 
Forward each man set! 

Pibroch of Donuil Dhu, 

Knell for the onset! 

Sir Walter Scott 

The Exile of Erin. 

There came to the beach a poor exile of 
Erin, 

The dew on his thin robe was heavy and 
chill; 

For his country he sigh’d when at twilight 
repairing 

To wander alone by the wind-beaten hill 

But the day-star attracted his eye’s sad de¬ 
votion, 

For it rose o’er his own native isle of the 
ocean, 

Where once, in the fervor of youth’s warm 
emotion, 

He sung the bold anthem of Erin go 
bragh. 

Sad is my fate! said the heart-broken 
stranger, 

The wild deer and wolf to a covert can 
flee; 

But I have no refuge from famine and 
danger, 

A home and a country remain not to me. 

Never again, in the green sunny bowers, 

Where my forefathers lived, shall I spend 
the sweet hours, 

Or cover my harp ivith the wild woven 
flowers, 

And strike to the numbers of Erin go 
bragh. 

! Erin, my country! though sad and for¬ 
saken, 

In dreams I revisit thy sea-beaten shore. 

But, alas! in a far foreign land I awaken, 

And sigh for the friends who can meet 
me no more! 

Oh, cruel Fate! wilt thou never replace me 

In a mansion of peace, where no perils 
can chase me? 

Never again shall my brothers embrace me? 

They died to defend me, or live to de~ 

! plore! 








360 


FIRESIDE ENCYCLOPAEDIA OF rOETRY. 


Where is my cabin-door, fast by the wild- 
wood ? 

Sisters and sire, did ye weep for its 
fall? 

Where is the mother that look’d on my 
childhood, 

And where is the bosom-friend, dearer 
than all ? 

Oh, my sad heart, long abandon’d by 
pleasure, 

Why did it dote on a fast-fading treasure? 

Tears, like the rain-drops, may fall with¬ 
out measure, 

But rapture and beauty they cannot re¬ 
call. 

Yet, all its sad recollections suppressing, 

One dying wish my lone bosom can 
draw; 

Erin, an exile bequeaths thee his bless¬ 
ing; 

Land of my forefathers! Erin go bragh! 

Buried and cold, when my heart stills her 
motion, 

Green be thy fields, sweetest isle of the 
ocean! 

And thy harp-striking bards sing aloud 
with devotion, 

Erin mavournin! Erin go bragh ! 

Thomas Campbell. 


Song of the Greek Poet. 

The isles of Greece, the isles of Greece! 

Where burning Sappho loved and sung,— 
Where grew the arts of war and peace,— 
Where Delos rose, and Phoebus sprung! 
Eternal summer gilds them yet; 

But all except their sun is set. 

The Scian and the Teian muse, 

The hero’s harp, the lover’s lute, 

Have found the fame your shores refuse; 

Their place of birth alone is mute 
To sounds which echo further west 
Than your sires’ “ Islands of the Blest.” 

The mountains look on Marathon, 

And Marathon looks on the sea; 

And musing there an hour alone, 

I dream’d that Greece might still be free; 
For standing on the Persians’ grave, 

I could not deem myself a slave. 


A king sate on the rocky brow 
Which looks o’er sea-born Salamis; 
And ships by thousands lay below 7 , 

And men in nations,—all were his! 

He counted them at break of day,— 

And when the sun set, where were they ? 

And where are they? and where art thou, 
My country? On thy voiceless shore 
The heroic lay is tuneless now,— 

The heroic bosom beats no more! 

And must thy lyre, so long divine, 
Degenerate into hands like mine? 

’Tis something, in the dearth of fame, 
Though link’d among a fetter'd race, 

To feel at least a patriot’s shame, 

E’en as I sing, suffuse my face; 

For what is left the poet here ? 

For Greeks a blush,—for Greece a tear. 

Must we but w r eep o’er days more blest? 

Must we but blush ?—our fathers bled. 
Earth ! render back from out thy breast 
A remnant of our Spartan dead ! 

Of the three hundred, grant but three 
To make a new Thermopylae! 

What, silent still? and silent all? 

Ah no! the voices of the dead 
Sound like a distant torrent’s fall, 

And answ 7 er, “ Let one living head. 

But one, arise,—w 7 e come, we come!” 

’Tis but the living who are dumb. 

In vain,—in vain ; strike other chords; 

Fill high the cup with Samian wine! 
Leave battles to the Turkish hordes, 

And shed the blood of Scio’s vine ! 
Hark! rising to the ignoble call, 

How 7 answers each bold Bacchanal! 

You have the Pyrrhic dance as yet, 

Where is the Pyrrhic phalanx gone? 

Of two such lessons, w T hy forget 
The nobler and the manlier one? 

You have the letters Cadmus gave,— 
Think ye he meant them for a slave? 

Fill high the bowd w'ith Samian w’ine! 

We will not think of themes like these 1 
It made Anacreon’s song divine; 

He served—but served Polycrates,— 

A tyrant; but our masters then 
i Were still, at least, our countrymen. 







POEMS OF PATRIOTISM. 


361 


The tyrant of the Chersonese 
Was freedom’s best and bravest friend; 
That tyrant was Miltiades! 

Oh that the present hour would lend 
Another despot of the kind ! 

Such chains as his were sure to bind. 

Fill high the bowl with Samian wine ! 

On Suli’s rock and Parga’s shore 
Exists the remnant of a line, 

Such as the Doric mothers bore; 

And there perhaps some seed is sown 
The Heracleidan blood might own. 

Trust not for freedom to the Franks,— 
They have a king who buys and sells. 

In native swords and native ranks 
The only hope of courage dwells; 

But Turkish force and Latin fraud 
Would break your shield, however broad. 

Fill high the bowl with Samian wine! 

Our virgins dance beneath the shade,— 
I see their glorious black eyes shine; 

But, gazing on each glowing maid, 

My own the burning tear-drop laves, 

To think such breasts must suckle slaves. 

Place me on Sunium’s marbled steep, 
Where nothing, save the waves and I, 
May hear our mutual murmurs sweep; 

There, swan-like, let me sing and die. 

A land of slaves shall ne’er be mine,— 
Dash down yon cup of Samian wine! 

Lord Byron. 

A Court Lady. 

Her hair was tawny with gold, her eyes 
with purple were dark, 

Her cheeks’ pale opal burnt with a red and 
restless spark. 

Never was lady of Milan nobler in name 
and in race; 

Never was lady of Italy fairer to see in the 
face. 

Never was lady on earth more true as 
woman and wife, 

Larger in judgment and instinct, prouder 
in manners and life. 


| She stood in the early morning, and said 
to her maidens, “ Bring 
| That silken robe made ready to wear at 
the court of the king. 

! “Bring me the clasps of diamond, lucid, 
clear of the mote, 

Clasp me the large at the waist, and clasp 
me the small at the throat. 

“Diamonds to fasten the hair, and dia¬ 
monds to fasten the sleeves, 

Laces to drop from their rays, like a pow¬ 
der of snow from the eaves.” 

Gorgeous she entered the sunlight, which 
gather’d her up in a flame, 

While straight in her open carriage she 
to the hospital came. 

In she went at the door, and gazing from 
end to end, 

“Many and low are the pallets, but each 
is the place of a friend.” 

Up she pass’d through the wards, and 
stood at a young man’s bed : 

Bloody the band on his brow, and livid 
the droop of his head. 

“ Art thou a Lombard, my brother? Happy 
art thou,” she cried, 

And smiled like Italy on him: he drcam’d 
in her face and died. 

Pale with his passing soul, she went on 
still to a second: 

He was a grave hard man, whose years by 
dungeons were reckon’d. 

Wounds in his body were sore, wounds in 
his life were sorer. 

“Art thou a Romagnole?” Her eyes 
drove the lightnings before her. 

“ Austrian and priest had join’d to double 
and tighten the cord 

Able to bind thee, 0 strong one,—free by 
the stroke of a sword. 

“Now be grave for the rest of us, using 
the life overcast 

To ripen our wine of the present (too 
new) in glooms of the past.” 








1562 


FIRESIDE ENCYCLOPAEDIA OF POETRY 


Down .she stepp’d to a pallet where lay a j 
face like a girl’s, 

Young, and pathetic with dying,—a deep 
black hole in the curls. 

“Art thou from Tuscany, brother? and 
seest thou, dreaming in pain, 

Thy mother stand in the piazza, searching 
the list of the slain ?” 

Kind as a mother herself, she touch’d his 
cheeks with her hands: 

“ Blessed is she who has borne thee, 
although she should weep as she 
stands.” 

On she pass’d to a Frenchman, his arm 
carried off by a ball: 

Kneeling, . . .“ 0 more than my brother! 
how shall I thank thee for all ? 

“ Each of the heroes around us has fought 
for his land and line, 

But thou hast fought for a stranger, in hate 
of a wrong not thine. 

“ Happy are all free peoples, too strong to 
be dispossess’d: 

But blessed are those among nations who 
dare to be strong for the rest!” 

Ever she pass’d on her way, and came to a 
couch where pined 

One with a face from Veuetia, white with 
a hope out of mind. 

Long she stood and gazed, and twice she 
tried at the name, 

But two great crystal tears were all that | 
falter’d and came. 

Only a tear for Venice?—she turn’d as in 
passion and loss, 

And stoop’d to his forehead and kiss’d it, 
as if she were kissing the cross. 

Faint with that strain of heart, she moved 
on then to another, 

Stern and strong in his death. “ And 
dost thou suffer, my brother?” 

Holding his hands in hers:—“Out of the 
Piedmont lion 

Cometh the sweetness of freedom ! sweet¬ 
est to live or to die on. 


Holding his cold rough hands,—“ Well, oh, 
well have ye done 

In noble, noble Piedmont, who would not 
be noble alone.” 

Back he fell while she spoke. She rose to 
her feet with a spring,— 

“That was a Piedmontese! and this is the 
Court of the King.” 

Elizabeth Barkett Browning. 


The Harp that Once through 
Tara’S Halls. 

The harp that once through Tara’s halls 
The soul of music shed, 

Now hangs as mute on Tara’s walls 
As if that soul were fled. 

So sleeps the pride of former days, 

So glory’s thrill is o’er, 

And hearts that once beat high for praise, 
Now feel that pulse no more. 

No more to chiefs and ladies bright 
The harp of Tara swells ; 

The chord alone that breaks at night 
Its tale of ruin tells. 

Thus Freedom now so seldom wakes, 

The only throb she gives 
Is when some heart indignant breaks, 

To show that still she lives. 

Thomas Moore. 


The Exile's Song. 

Oh, why left I my hame? 

Why did I cross the deep ? 
Oh, why left I the land 

Where my forefathers sleep ? 
I sigh for Scotia’s shore, 

And I gaze across the sea, 
But I cauna get a blink 
O’ my ain countree! 

The palm tree waveth high, 
And fair the myrtle springs ; 
And to the Indian maid 
The bulbul sweetly sings ; 
But I dinna see the broom 
Wi’ its tassels on the lea, 
Nor hear the 1 in tie’s sang 
O’ my ain countree ! 











POEMS OF PATRIOTISM. 


363 


Oh, here no Sabbath bell 
Awakes the Sabbath morn, 

Nor song of reapers heard 
Amang the yellow corn . 

For the tyrant’s voice is here, 

And the wail of slaverie ; 

But the sun of Freedom shines 
In my ain countree 1 

There’s a hope lor every woe, 

And a balm for every pain, 

But the first joys o’ our heart 
Come never back again. 

There’s a track upon the deep, 
And a path across the sea; 

But the weary ne’er return 
To their ain countree ! 

Robert Gilfillan. 


Ho w Sleep the Bra ve. 

How sleep the Brave who sink to rest 
By all their Country’s wishes blest! 
When Spring, with dewy fingers cold, 
Returns to deck their hallow’d mould, 
She there shall dress a sweeter sod 
Than Fancy’s feet have ever trod. 

By fairy bands their knell is rung, 

By forms unseen their dirge is sung: 
There Honor comes, a pilgrim gray, 

To bless the turf that wraps their clay, 
And Freedom shall a while repair 
To dwell a weeping hermit there! 

William Collins. 


An Ode. 

In Imitation of Alcasus. 

What constitutes a state? 

Not high-raised battlement or labor’d 
mound, 

Thick wall or moated gate; 

Not cities proud with spires and turrets ! 
crown’d ; 

Not bays and broad-arm’d ports, 

Where, laughing at the storm, rich navies 
ride; 

Not starr’d and spangled courts, 

Where low-brow’d baseness wafts perfume 
to pride. 


No; men, high-minded men, 

With powers as far above dull brutes en¬ 
dued 

In forest, brake, or den, 

As beasts excel cold rocks and brambles 
rude, 

Men who their duties know, 

But know their rights, and, knowing, dare 
maintain, 

Prevent the long-aim’d blow, 

And crush the tyrant while they rend the 
chain : 

These constitute a state; 

And sovereign Law, that state’s collected 
will, 

O’er thrones and globes elate 
Sits empress, crowning good, repressing ill. 

Smit by her sacred frown, 

The fiend Dissension like a vapor sinks, 
And e’en the all-dazzling Crown 
Hides his faint rays, and at her bidding 
shrinks. 

Such was this heaven-loved isle, 

Than Lesbos fairer and the Cretan shore! 

No more shall Freedom smile? 

Shall Britons languish, and be men no 
more ? 

Since all must life resign, 

Those sweet rewards which decorate the 
brave 

’Tis folly to decline, 

And steal inglorious to the silent grave. 

Sir William Jones. 

As by the Shore at break of 
Da y. 

As by the shore at break of day, 

A vanquish’d chief expiring lay, 

Upon the sands, with broken sword, 

He traced his farewell to the free ; 
And there the last unfinish’d word 
He dying wrote, was “ Liberty !” 

At night a sea-bird shriek’d the knell 
Of him who thus for freedom fell; 

The words he wrote, ere evening came, 
Were cover’d by the sounding sea ;— 
So pass away the cause and name 
Of him who dies for liberty ! 

Thomas Moore 









364 


FIRESIDE ENCYCLOPAEDIA OF POETRY 


A Forced Recruit at Solferino. 

In the ranks of the Austrian you found 

him; 

He died with his face to you all: 

Yet bury him here, where around him 
You honor your bravest that fall. 

Venetian, fair-featured and slender, 

He lies shot to death in his youth, 

With a smile on his lips over-tender 
For any mere soldier’s dead mouth. 

No stranger, and yet not a traitor! 

Though alien the cloth on his breast, 
Underneath it how seldom a greater 
Young heart has a shot sent to rest! 

By your enemy tortured and goaded 
To march with them, stand in their file, 
His musket (see !) never was loaded— 

He facing your guns with that smile. 

As orphans yearn on their mothers, 

He yearned to your patriot bands,— 

“ Ix't me die for one Italy, brothers, 

If not in your ranks, by your hands 1 

“ Aim straightlv, fire steadily; spare me 
A ball in the body, which may* 

Deliver my heart here, and tear me 
This badge of the Austrian away.” 

So thought he, so died lie this morning. 

What then ? many others have died. 

Ay—but easy for men to die scorning 
The death-stroke,who fought sidcby side; 

One tricolor floating above them ; 

Struck down mid triumphant acclaims 
Of an Italy rescued to love them, 

And brazen the brass with their names. 

But he—without witness or honor, 

Mixed, shared in his country’s regard, 
With the tyrants who march in upon her— 
Died faithful and passive : ’twas hard. 

Twas sublime. In a cruel restriction 
Out off from the guerdon of sons, 

With most filial obedience, conviction, 

His soul kissed the 1 ip.s of her guns. 


That moves you ? Nay, grudge not to show 
it, 

While digging a grave for him here. 

The others who died, says our poet, 

Have glory : let him have a tear. 

Elizabeth Barrett Browning. 

Boa t-Song. 

Hail to the Chief who in triumph ad¬ 
vances ! 

Honor’d and bless’d be the ever-green 
Pine! 

Long may the tree, in his banner that 
glances, 

Flourish, the shelter and grace of our 
line 1 

Heaven send it happy dew, 

Earth lend it sap anew, 

Gayly to bourgeon, and broadly to grow, 
While every Highland glen 
Send our shout back again,— 

“ Roderigh Vich Alpine dhu, ho! ieroe !” 

Ours is no sapling, chance-sown by the 
fountain, 

Blooming at Beltane, in winter to fade; 

When the whirlwind has stripp’d every 
leaf on the mountain, 

The more shall Clan-Alpine exult in her 
shade. 

Moor’d in the rifted rock, 

Proof to the tempest’s shock, 
Firmer he roots him the ruder it blow; 

Menteith and Breadalbane, then, 
Echo his praise again,— 

“ Roderigh A r ich Alpine dhu, lio ! ieroe !” 

Proudly our pibroch has thrill’d in Glen 
Fruin, 

And Bannachar’s groans to our slogan 
replied; 

Glen Luss and Ross-dhu, they are smoking 
in ruin, 

And the best of Loch Lomond lie dead on 
her side. 

Widow and Saxon maid 
Long shall lament our raid, 

Think of Clan-Alpine with fear and with 
woe ; 

Lennox and Leven-Glen 
Shake when they hear again,— 
“Roderigh Vich Alpine dhu, ho 1 ieroe.” 







POEMS OF PATRIOTISM. 


365 


Row, vassals, row, for the pride of the 
Highlands! 

Stretch to your oars, for the ever-green 
pine! 

Oh! that the rosebud that graces yon 
islands, 

Were wreathed in a garland around him 
to twine! 

Oh that some seedling gem, 
Worthy such noble stem, 

Honor’d and bless’d in their shadow might 
grow! 

Loud should Clan-Alpine then 
Ring from his deepmost glen,— 
“Roderigh Vich Alpine dhu, ho! ieroe!” 

Sir Walter Scott. 


It is Great for our Country to 
Die. 

Oh ! it is great for our country to die j 
where ranks are contending: 

Bright is the wreath of our fame; glory 
awaits us for aye— 

Glory, that never is dim, shining on with 
light never ending— 

Glory that never shall fade—never, oh ! 
never away. 

Oh! it is sweet for our country to die! 
How softly reposes 

Warrior youth on his bier, wet by the 
tears of his love, 

Wet by a mother’s warm tears! they crown 
him with garlands of roses, 

Weep, and then joyously turn, bright 
where he triumphs above. 

Not to the shades shall the youth descend ' 
who for country hath perished ; 

Hebe awaits him in heaven, welcomes 
him there with her smile; 

There, at the banquet divine, the patriot 
spirit is cherished ; 

Gods love the young who ascend pure 
from the funeral pile. 

Not to Elysian fields, by the still, oblivious 
river; 

Not to the isles of the blest, over the 
blue-rolling sea; 


But on Olympian heights shall dwell the 
devoted for ever; 

There shall assemble the good, there the 
wise, valiant, and free. 

Oh! then, how great for our country to die. 
in the front rank to perish, 

Firm with our breast to the foe, victory’s 
shout in our ear f 

Long they our statues shall crown, in songs 
our memory cherish; 

We shall look forth from our heaven, 
pleased the sweet music to hear. 

James Gates Percival. 

The Heart of the War. 

( 1864 .) 

Peace in the clover-scented air, 

And stars within the dome; 

And underneath, in dim repose, 

A plain, New England'home. 

Within, a murmur of low tones 
And sighs from hearts oppressed, 

Merging in prayer, at last, that brings 
The balm of silent rest. 


I’ve closed a hard day’s work, Marty,— 
The evening chores are done; 

And you are weary with the house, 

And with the little one. 

But he is sleeping sweetly now, 

With all our pretty brood ; 

So come and sit upon my knee, 

And it will do me good. 

Oh, Marty! I must tell you all 
The trouble in my heart, 

And you must do the best you can 
To take and bear your part. 

You’ve seen the shadow on my face; 
You’ve felt it day and night; 

For it has filled our little home, 

And banished all its light. 

I did not mean it should be so, 

And yet I might have known 

That hearts which live as close as ours 
Can never keep their own. 

But we are fallen on evil times, 

And, do whate’er I may, 

My heart grows sad about the war, 

And sadder every day. 








FIRESIDE ENCYCLOPAEDIA OF POETRY. 


3t>6 


I think about it when I work. 

And when I try to rest, 

And never more than when your head 
Is pillowed on my breast ; 

For then I see the camp-fires blaze, 

And sleeping men around, 

Who turn their faces toward their homes, ' 
And dream upon the ground. 


For, Marty, all the soldiers love, 

And all are loved again ; 

And I am loved, and love, perhaps, 

No more than other men. 

I cannot tell—I do not know— 

Which way my duty lies, 

Or where the Lord would have me build 
My fire of sacrifice. 


I think about the dear, brave boys, 

My mates in other years, 

Who pine for home and those they love, 
Till I am choked with tears. 

With shouts and cheers they marched 
away 

On glory’s shining track, 

But, ah! how long, how long they stay! 
How few of them come back ! 

One sleeps beside the Tennessee, 

And one beside the James, 

And one fought on a gallant ship 
And perished in its flames. 

And some, struck down by fell disease, 
Are breathing out their life; 

And others, maimed by cruel wounds, 
Have left the deadly strife. 

Ah, Marty! Marty, only think 
Of all the boys have done 
And suffered in this weary war! 

Brave heroes, every one! 

Oh, often, often in the night 
I hear their voices call: 

“ Come on and help us ! Is it right 
That we should bear it all ?” 

And when I kneel and try to pray, 

My thoughts are never free, 

But cling to those who toil and fight 
And die for you and me. 

And when I pray for victory, 

It seems almost a sin 
To fold my hands and ask for what 
I will not help to win. 

Oh, do not cling to me and cry, 

For it will break my heart; 

I’m sure you’d rather have me die 
Than not to bear my part. 

You think that some should stay at home 
To care for those away ; 

But still I’m helpless to decide 
If T should go or stay. 


I feel—I know—I am not mean ; 

And, though I seem to boast, 

I’m sure that I would give my life 
To those who need it most. 

Perhaps the Spirit will reveal 
That which is fair and right; 

So, Marty, let us humbly kneel 
And pray to Heaven for light. • 

Peace in the clover-scented air, 

And stars within the dome; 

And underneath, in dim repose, 

A plain, New England home. 

Within, a widow in her weeds, 

From whom all joy is flown, 

Who kneels among her sleeping babes. 
And weeps and prays alone. 

J. O. Holland. 

Old Ironsides. 

Ay, tear her tattered ensign down ! 

Long has it waved on high, 

And many an eye has danced to see 
That banner in the sky ; 

Beneath it rung the battle shout, 

And burst the cannon’s roar;— 

The meteor of the ocean air 
Shall sweep the clouds no more. 

Her deck, once red with heroes’ blood, 
Where knelt the vanquished foe, 

When winds were hurrying o’er the flood, 
I And waves were white below, 

No more shall feel the victor’s tread, 

Or know the conquered knee;— 

The harpies of the shore shall pluck 
The eagle of the sea! 

Oh, better that her shattered hulk 
Should sink beneath the wave; 

Her thunders shook the mighty deep, 

And there should be her grave; 

Nail to the mast her holy flag, 

Set every threadbare sail, 

And give her to the god of storms, 

! The lightning and the gale! 

Oliver Wendell Holmes. 






POEMS OF PATRIOTISM. 


3fi 


Roadicea. 

AN ODE. 

When the British warrior queen, 
Bleeding from the Roman rods, 

Sought, with an indignant mien, 
Counsel of her country’s gods, 

Sage beneath the spreading oak 
Sat the Druid, hoary chief; 

Every burning word he spoke 
Full of rage and full of grief. 

Princess! if our aged eyes 
Weep upon tliy matchless wrongs, 

’Tis because resentment ties 
All the terrors of our tongues. 

Rome shall perish—write that word 
hi the blood that she has spilt; 

Perish, hopeless and abhorred, 

Deep in ruin as in guilt. 

Rome, for empire far renowned, 
Tramples on a thousand states; 

Soon her pride shall kiss the ground— 
Hark ! the Gaul is at her gates! 

Other Romans shall arise, 

Heedless of a soldier’s name; 

Sounds, not arms, shall win the prize, 
Harmony the path to fame. 

Then the progeny that springs 
From the forests of our land, 

Armed with thunder, clad with wings, 
Shall a wider world command. 

Regions Caesar never knew 
Thy posterity shall sway; 

Where his eagles never flew, 

None invincible as they. 

Such the bard’s prophetic words, 
Pregnant with celestial fire, 

Bending as he swept the chords 
Of his sweet but awful lyre. 


She, with all a monarch’s pride, 

Felt them in her bosom glow: 
Rushed to battle, fought, and died ; 
Dying, hurled them at the foe. 

Ruffians, pitiless as proud, 

Heaven awards the vengeance due; 
Empire is on us bestowed, 

Shame and ruin wait for you. 

William Cowper. 


Concord Hymn. 

Sung at the Completion of the Concord 
Monument, April 19,183G. 

By the rude bridge that arched the flood, 
Their flag to April’s breeze unfurled, 
Here once the embattled farmers stood, 
And fired the shot heard round the 
world. 

The foe long since in silence slept ; 

Alike the conqueror silent sleeps ; 

And Time the ruined bridge has swept 
Down the dark stream which seaward 
creeps. 

On this green bank, by this soft stream, 
We set to-day a votive stone; 

That memory may their deed redeem, 
When, like our sires, our sons are gone. 

Spirit, that made those heroes dare 
To die, and leave their children free, 

Bid Time and Nature gently spare 
The shaft we raise to them and thee. 

Ralph Waldo Emerson. 

On the Shores of Tennessee. 

“ Move my arm-chair, faithful Pompey, 
In the sunshine bright and strong, 

For this world is fading, Pompey— 
Massa won’t be with you long; 

And I fain would hear the south wind 
Bring once more the sound to me 
Of the wavelets softly breaking 
On the shores of Tennessee. 






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FIRESIDE ENCYCLOPAEDIA OF POETRY 


“ Mournful though the ripples murmur 
As they still the story tell, 

How no vessels float the banner 
That I’ve loved so long and well, 

I shall listen to their music, 

Dreaming that again 1 see 
Stars and Stripes on sloop and shallop, 
Sailing up the Tennessee. 

“And, Pompey, while old massa’s waiting 
For Death’s last despatch to come, 

If that exiled starry banner 

Should come proudly sailing home, 
You shall greet it, slave no longer; 

Voice and hand shall both be free 
That shout and point to Union colors 
On the waves of Tennessee.” 

“ Massa’s berry kind to Pompey, 

But ole darkey’s happy here, 

Where lie’s tended corn and cotton 
For dese many a long-gone year. 

Over yonder missis’ sleeping— 

No one tends her grave like me: 
Mebbe she would miss the flowers 
She used to love in Tennessee. 

’Pears like she was watching massa; 

If Pompey should beside him stay, 
Mebbe she’d remember better 
How for him she used to pray— 
Telling him that ’way up yonder 
White as snow his soul would be, 
Ransomed by the Lord of heaven, 

Out of life in Tennessee.” 

Silently the tears were rolling 
Down the poor old dusky face, 

As he stepped behind his master, 

In his long-accustomed place. 

Then a silence fell around them 
As they gazed on rock and tree, 
Pictured in the placid waters 
Of the rolling Tennessee. 


Master, dreaming of the battle 
Where he fought by Marion’s side, 
Where he bid the haughty Tarleton 
Stoop his lordly crest of pride; 

Man, remembering how yon sleeper 
Once he held upon his knee, 

Ere she loved the gallant soldier, 

Ralph Vervain of Tennessee. 

Still the south wind fondly lingers 
’Mid the veteran’s silver hair; 

Still the bondman, close beside him, 
Stands behind the old arm-chair; 

With his dark-hued hand uplifted, 
Shading eyes, he bends to see 
Where the woodland, boldly jutting, 
Turns aside the Tennessee. 

Thus he watches; cloud-born shadows 
Glide from tree to mountain-crest, 
Softly creeping, aye and ever, 

To the river’s yielding breast. 

Ha ! above the foliage yonder, 
Something flutters wild and free! 

“Massa! Massa! Hallelujah! 

The flag’s come back to Tennessee !” 

“ Pompey, hold me on your shoulder, 
Help me stand on foot once more, 
That I may salute the colors 
As they pass my cabin-door. 

Here’s the paper signed that frees you,— 
Give a freeman’s shout with me! 

‘ God and Union !’ be our watchword 
Evermore in Tennessee!” 

Then the trembling voice grew fainter, 
And the limbs refused to stand ; 

One prayer to Jesus—and the soldier 
Glided to that better land. 

When the flag went down the river 
Man and master both were free, 

While the ring-dove’s note was mingled 
With the rippling Tennessee. 

Ethel Lynn Beers. 





Legendary and Ballad Poetry. 


Sir Patrick Spens. 

The king sits in Dunfermline town, 
Drinking the blude-red wine: 

“ Oh where will I get a skeely skipper 
To sail this ship of mine?” 

Oh up and spake an eldern knight, 

Sat at the king’s right knee: 

“ Sir Patrick Spens is the best sailor 
That ever sail’d the sea.” 

Our king has written a braid letter, 

And seal’d it with his hand, 

And sent it to Sir Patrick Spens, 

Was walking on the strand. 

“To Noroway, to Noroway, 

To Noroway o’er the faem ; 

The king’s daughter of Noroway, 

’Tis thou maun bring her liame !” 

The first word that Sir Patrick read, 

Sae loud, loud laughfed he; 

The neist word that Sir Patrick read, 

The tear blinded his e’e. 

“ Oh wha is this has done this deed, 

And tauld the king o’ me, 

To send us out at this time of the year, 

To sail upon the sea ? 

“ Be’t wind or weet, be’t hail or sleet, 

Our shij> maun sail the faem ; 

The king’s daughter of Noroway, 

’Tis we must fetch her hame.” 

They hoysed their sails on Monenday morn 
Wi’ a’ the speed they may; 

They hae landed in Noroway 
Upon a Wodensday. 

They hadna been a week, a week 
In Noroway, but twae, 

24 


When that the lords o’ Noroway 
Began aloud to say: 

“Ye Scottishmen spend a’ our king’s goud 
And a’ our queenis fee.” 

“ Ye lie, ye lie, ye liars loud! 

Fu’ loud I hear ye lie! 

“ For I hae brought as much white monie 
As gane my men and me,—• 

And I hae brought a half-fou o’ glide red 
goud 

Out owre the sea wi’ me. 

“ Make ready, make ready, my merry men 
a’! 

Our gude ship sails the morn.” 

“ Now, ever alake! my master dear, 

I fear a deadly storm ! 

“I saw the new moon, late yestreen, 

Wi’ the auld moon in her arm; 

And if we gang to sea, master, 

I fear we’ll come to harm.” 

They hadna sail’d a league, a league, 

A league, but barely three, 

When the lift grew dark, and the wind 
blew loud, 

And gurly grew the sea. 

The ankers brak, and the topmasts lap, 

It was sic a deadly storm ; 

And the waves cam o’er the broken ship 
Till a’ her sides were torn. 

“ Oh where will I get a gude sailor 
To take my helm in hand, 

Till I get up to the tall topmast 
To see if I can spy land?” 

“ Oh here am 1, a sailor gude, 
i To take the helm in hand, 


369 




FIRESIDE ENCYCLOPEDIA OF POETRY. 


370 

Till you go up to the tall topmast,— 

But I fear you’ll ne’er spy land.” 

He hadna gane a step, a step, 

A step, but barely ane, 

When a boult flew out of our goodly ship, 
And the salt sea it came in. 

“ Gae fetch a web o’ the silken claith, 
Another o’ the twine, 

And wap them into our ship’s side, 

And let nae the sea come in.” 

They fetch’d a web o’ the silken claith, 
Another o’ the twine, 

And they wapp’d them round that gude 
ship’s side, 

—But still the sea came in. 

Oh laith, laitli were our gude Scots lords 
To weet their cork-heel’d shoon ! 

But lang or a’ the play was play’d, 

They wat their hats aboon. 

And mony was the feather-bed 
That float’d on the faem; 

And mony was the gude lord’s son 
That never mair cam hame. 

The ladyes wrang their fingers white,— 
The maidens tore their hair; 

A’ for the sake of their true loves,— 

For them they’ll see nae mair. 

Oh lang, lang may the ladyes sit, 

Wi’ their fans into their hand, 

Before they see Sir Patrick Spens 
Come sailing to the strand! 

And lang, lang may the maidens sit, 

Wi’ their goud kaims in their hair, 

A ? waiting for their ain dear loves,— 

For them they’ll see nae mair. 

Half owre, half owre to Aberdour 
’Tis fifty fathoms deep, 

And there lies gude Sir Patrick Spens 
Wi’ the Scots lords at his feet. 

Author Unknown. 


The Heir of linne. 

Part First. 

Lithe and listen, gentlemen, 

To sing a song I will beginne: 

It is of a lord of fa ire Scotland, 

Which was the unthrifty heire of Linne. 


His father was a right good lord, 

His mother a lady of high degree; 

But they, alas! were dead, him froe, 

And he lov’d keeping companie. 

To spend the daye with merry clieare; 

To drink and revell every night, 

To card and dice from eve to morne, 

It was, I ween, his hearts delighte. 

To ride, to runne, to rant, to roare, 

To alwaye spend and never spare, 

I wott, an’ it were the king himselfe, 

Of gold and fee he mote be bare. 

Soe fares the unthrifty Lord of Linne 
Till all his gold is gone and spent; 

And he maun sell his landes so broad, 

His house, and landes, and all his rent. 

His father had a keen stewarde, 

And John o’ the Scales was called hee. 
But John is become a gentel-man, 

And John has gott both gold and fee. 

Sayes, Welcome, welcome, Lord of Linne, 
Let naught disturb thy merry cheere; 
Iff thou wilt sell thy landes soe broad, 
Good store of gold lie give thee heere. 

My gold is gone, my money is spent; 

My lande nowe take it unto thee: 

Give me the golde, good John o’ the Scales. 
And thine for aye my lande shall bee. 

Then John he did him to record draw, 
And John he cast him a gods-pennie; 

; But for every pounde that John agreed, 
The lande, I wis, was well worth three. 

He told him the gold upon the horde. 

He was right glad his land to winne; 
The gold is thine, the land is mine, 

And now lie be the Lord of Linne. 

Thus he hath sold his land soe broad, 

Both hill and holt, and moore and fenne 
All but a poore and lonesome lodge, 

That stood far off in a lonely glenne. 

For soe he to his father hight. 

My sonne, when 1 am gonne, sayd hee, 
Then thou wilt spend thy lande so broad, 
And thou wilt spend thy gold so free; 





LEGKXJtARY AND BALLAD POETRY. 


371 


Hut sweare me nowe upon the roode, 
Thatlonesome lodge thou’lt never spend; 
For when all the world doth frown on 
thee, 

Thou there shalt find a faithful friend. 

The heire of Linne is full of golde: 

And come with me, my friends, sayd 
hee, 

Let’s drinke, and rant, and merry make, 
And he that spares, ne’er mote he thee. 

They ranted, drank, and merry made, 

Till all his gold it waxed thinne; 

And then his friendes they slunk away; 
They left the unthrifty heire of Linne. 

He had never a penny left in his purse, 
Never a penny left but three, 

And one was brass, another was lead, 

And another it was white money. 

Nowe well-aday, sayd the heire of Linne, 
Nowe well-adaye, and woe is nice, 

Tor when I was the Lord of Linne, 

1 never wanted gold nor fee. 

flat many a trustye friend have I, 

And why shold I feel dole or care? 

He borrow of them all by turnes, 

Soe need I not be never bare. 

But one, I wis, was not at home; 

Another had payd his gold away ; 
Another call’d him thriftless loonc, 

And bade him sharpely wend his way. 

Now well-aday, sayd the heire of Linne, 
Now well-aday, and woe is me; 

For when I had my landes so broad, 

On me they liv’d right merrilee. 

To beg my bread from door to door, 

1 wis, it were a brenning shame: 

To rob and steal it were a sinne: 

To worke my limbs I cannot frame. 

Now lie away to lonesome lodge, 

For there my father bade me wend: 
When all the world should frown on mee 
I there shold find a trusty friend. 

Part Second. 

Away then hyed the heire of Linne 
O’er hill and holt, and moor and fenne, 


j Untill he came to lonesome lodge, 

That stood so lowe in a lonelv glenne. 

. 

He looked up, he looked downe, 

In hope some comfort for to winne: 

But bare and lothly were the walles. 
Here’s sorry eheare, quo’ the heire of 
Linne. 

The little windowe dim and darke 
Was hung with ivy, brere, and yewe; 

No shimmering sunn here ever shone, 

No halesome breeze here ever blew. 

No chair, ne table he mote spye, 

No cheerful hearth, ne welcome bed, 
Naught save a rope with renning noose, 
That dangling hung up o’er his head. 

And over it in broad letters, 

These words were written so plain fo 
see : 

“Ah! gracelesse wretch, hast spent thine 
all 

And brought thyself to penurie? 

“All this my boding mind misgave, 

I therefore left this trusty friend : 

Let it now sheeld thy foule disgrace, 

And all thy shame and sorrows end.” 

Sorely slient wi’ this rebuke, 

Sorely shent was the heire of Linne; 
His heart, I wis, was near to brast 
With guilt and sorrowe, shame and 
sinne. 

Never a word spake the heire of Linne, 
Never a word he spake but three : 

“ This is a trusty friend indeed, 

And is right welcome unto mee.” 

Then round his neeke the corde he drewe, 
And sprang aloft with his bodie : 

When lo ! the ceiling burst in twaine, 

And to the ground come tumbling hee. 

Astonyed lay the heire of Linne, 

Ne kncwe if he were live or dead : 

At length he look’d, and sawe a bille, 

And in it a key of gold so redd. 

He took the bill, and lookt it on, 

Strait good comfort found he theie : 

Itt told him of a hole in the wall, 

In which there stood three chests in-fere. 









572 


FIRESIDE ENCYCLOPAEDIA OF POETRY 


Two were full of the beaten golde, 

The third was full of white monfey ; 

A.nd over them in broad letters 
These words were written so plaine to 
see: 

:t Once more, my sonne, I sette thee clere ; 

Amend thy life and follies past; 

For but thou amend thee of thy life, 

That rope must be thv end at last.” 

A.nd let it bee, sayd the heire of Linne; 

And let it bee, but if I amend : 

For here I will make mine avow, 

This reade shall guide me to the end. 

Away then went with a merry cheare, 
Away then w r ent the heire of Linne ; 

I wis, he neither ceas’d ne blanne, 

Till John o’ the Scales house he did 
winne. 

And when he came to John o’ the Scales, 
L T pp at the speere then lookkl hee ; 
There sate three lords upon a rowe, 

Were drinking of the wine so free. 

And John himselfe sate at the bord-head, 
Because now Lord of Linne was hee. 

I pray thee, he said, good John o’ the 
Scales, 

One forty pence for to lend mee. 

Away, away, thou thriftless loone ; 

Away, away, this may not bee: 

For Christs curse on my head, he sayd, 

If ever I trust thee one pennle. 

Then bespake the heir of Linne, 

To John o’ the Scales wife then spake 
hee: 

Madame, some alines on me bestowe, 

I pray for sweet saint Charitle. 


Some time a good fellow thou hast been, 
And sparedst not thy gold and fee ; 

Therefore He lend thee forty pence, 

And other forty if need bee. 

And ever I pray thee, John o’ the Scales, 
To let him sit in thv companie : 

For well I wot thou hadst his land, 

And a good bargain it was to thee. 

Up then spake him John o’ the Scales, 

All wood he answer’d him againe : 

Now Christs curse on my head, he sayd, 
But I did lose by that bargaine. 

And here I proffer thee, heire of Linne, 
Before these lords so faire and free, 

Thou shalt have it backe again better cheape, 
By a hundred markes, than I had it of 
thee. 

I drawe you to record, lords, he said. 

With that he cast him a gods-pennie : 

Now by my fay, sayd the heire of Linne, 
And here, good John, is thy money. 

And he pull’d forth three bagges of gold, 
And layd them down upon the bord : 

All woe begone was John o’ the Scales, 
Soe shent he cold say never a word. 

He told him forth the good red gold, 

He told it forth mickle dinne. 

The gold is thine, the land is mine, 

And now Ime againe the Lord of Linne 

Sayes, Have thou here, thou good felldwe, 
Forty pence thou didst lend mee : 

Now I am againe the Lord of Linne, 

And forty pounds I will give thee. 

lie make thee keeper of my forrest, 

Both of the wild deere and the tame, 

For but I reward thy bounteous heart, 

I wis, good fellowe, I were to blame. 


Away, away, thou thriftless loone, Now welladay ! sayth Joan o’ the Scales t 

I sweare thou gettest no alines ot mee ; Now welladay ! and woe is my life ! 

For if we should hang any losel heere, Yesterday I was Lady of Linne, 

the first we wold begin with thee. Now Ime but John o’ the Scales his wife. 

I hen bespake a good fellbwe, Now fare thee well, sayd the heire of Linne; 

"Which sat at John o’ the Scales his Farewell now, John o’the Scales, said hee-' 

b° rc l! Christs curse light on me, if ever again 

Sayd, Turn againe, thou heire of Linne ; j bring my lands in jeopardy. 

Some time thou wast a well good lord : i author Unknown. 








LEGENDARY AND BALLAD POETRY. 


373 


Skipper Ires on’s Ride. 

Of all the rides since the birth of time, 
Told in story or sung in rhyme,— 

On . Ipuleius’s Golden Ass, 

Or one-eyed Calendar’s horse of brass, 
Witch astride of a human back, 

Islam’s prophet on Al-Bordk,— 

The strangest ride that ever was sped 
Was Ireson’s, out from Marblehead! 

Old Floyd Ireson, for his hard heart, 
Tarr’d and feather’d and carried in a 
a cart 

By the women of Marblehead! 

Body of turkey, head of owl, 

Wings a-droop like a rain’d-on fowl, 
Feather’d and ruffled in every part, 
Skipper Ireson stood in the cart. 

Scores of women, old and young, 

Strong of muscle, and glib of tongue, 
Push’d and pull’d up the rocky lane, 
Shouting and singing the shrill refrain : 

“ Here’s Flud Oirson, fur his horrd 
horrt, 

Torr’d an’ futherr’d an’ corr’d in a 
corrt 

By the women o’ Morble’ead!” 

Wrinkled scolds with hands on hips, 

Girls in bloom of cheek and lips, 
Wild-eyed, free-limb’d, such as chase 
Bacchus round some antique vase, 

Brief of skirt, with ankles bare, 

Loose of kerchief and loose of hair, 

With conch-shells blowing and fish-horn’s 
twang, 

Over and over the Maenads sang: 

“ Here’s Flud Oirson, fur his horrd 
horrt, 

Torr’d an’ futherr’d an’ corr’d in a 
corrt 

By the women o’ Morble’ead!” 

Small pity for him !—He sail’d away 
From a leaking ship, in Chaleur Bay,— 
Sail’d away from a sinking wreck, 

With his own town’s-people on her deck'. 
“Lay by! lay by!” they call’d to him. 
Back he answer’d, “Sink or swim ! 

Brag of your catch of fish again!’’ 

And off he sail’d through the fog and 
rain! 


Old Floyd Ireson, for his hard heart, 
Tarr’d and feather’d and carried in a 
cart 

By the women of Marblehead! 

Fathoms deep in dark Chaleur 
That wreck shall lie for evermore. 

Mother and sister, wife and maid, 

Look’d from the rocks of Marblehead 
Over the moaning and rainy sea,— 

Look’d for the coming that might not be 
What did the winds and sea-birds say 
Of the cruel captain who sail’d away?— 
Old Floyd Ireson, for his hard heart, 
Tarr’d and feather’d and carried in a 
cart 

By the women of Marblehead! 

Through the street, on either side, 

Up flew windows, doors swung wide; 
Sharp-tongued spinsters, old wives gray, 
Treble lent the fish-horn’s bray. 

Sea-worn grandsires, cripple-bound, 

Hulks of old sailors run aground, 

Shook head, and fist, and hat, and cane, 
And crack’d with curses the hoarse re* 
frain: 

“ Here’s Flud Oirson, for his horrd 
horrt, 

Torr’d an’ futherr’d an’ corr’d in a 
corrt 

By the women o’ Morble’ead!” 

Sweetly along the Salem road 
Bloom of orchard and lilac show’d. 

Little the wicked skipper knew 

Of the fields so green and the sky so blue. 

Riding there in his sorry trim, 

Like an Indian idol glum and grim, 
Scarcely he seem’d the sound to hear 
Of voices shouting far and near: 

“ Here’s Flud Oirson, for his horrd 
horrt, 

Torr’d an’ futherr’d an’ corr’d in a 
corrt 

By the women o’ Morble’ead !” 

“Hear me, neighbors!” at last he cried,— 
“ What to me is this noisy ride? 

What is the shame that clothes the skin 
To the nameless horror that lives within ? 
Waking or sleeping, I see a wreck 
And hear a cry from a reeling deck! 






374 


FIRESIDE ENCYCLOPAEDIA OF POETRY. 


Hate me and curse me,—I only dread 
The hand of God and the face of the 
dead!” 

Said old Floyd Ireson, for his hard 
heart, 

Tarr’d and feather’d and carried in a 
cart 

By the women of Marblehead ! 

Then the wife of the skipper lost at sea 
Said, “God has touch’d him !—why should 
we?” 

Said an old wife mourning her only son, 
“Cut the rogue’s tether and let him run !” 
So with soft relentings and rude excuse, 
Half scorn, half pity, they cut him loose, 
And gave him a cloak to hide him in, 

And left him alone with his shame and 
sin. 

Poor Floyd Ireson, for his hard heart, 
Tarr’d and feather’d and carried in a 
cart 

By the women of Marblehead. 

John Greexleaf Whittier. 


IIow they Brought the Good 
News from Ghent to Aix. 

I sprang to the stirrup, and Joris, and 
he; 

I gallop’d, Dirck gallop’d, we gallop’d all 
three; 

“ Good speed!” cried the watch, as the 
gate-bolts undrew; 

“ Speed !” echo’d the wall to us galloping 
through; 

Behind shut the postern, the lights sank to 
rest, 

And into the midnight we gallop’d 
abreast. 

Nut a word to each other; we kept the 
great pace 

Neck by neck, stride by stride, never 
changing our place; 

I turn’d in my saddle and made its girths 
tight, 

Then shorten’d each stirrup, and set the 
pique right, 

Rebuckled the check-strap, chain’d slacker 
the bit, 

Nor gallop’d less steadily Roland a whit. 


’Twas moonset at starting; but while we 
drew near 

Lokeren, the cocks crew and twilight 
dawn’d clear; 

At Boom, a great yellow star came out to 
see; 

At Diiffeld, ’twas morning as plain as 
could be ; 

And from Mecheln church-steeple we heard 
the half-chime, 

So Joris broke silence with, “ Yet there is 
time!” 


At Aerschot, up leap’d of a sudden the 

i sun, 

I " 

And against him the cattle stood black 
every one, 

To stare through the mist at us galloping 
past, 

| And I saw my stout galloper Roland at 
last, 

With resolute shoulders, each butting away 

The haze, as some bluff river headland its 
spray. 

And his low r head and crest, just one sharp 
ear bent back 

For my voice, and the other prick’d out on 
his track ; 

j And one eye’s black intelligence,—ever 
that glance 

O’er its white edge at me, his own master, 
askance 1 

And the thick heavy spume flakes which 
aye and anon 

His fierce lips shook upward in galloping 
on. 


By Hasselt, Dirck groan’d; and cried 
Joris, “ Stay spur ! 

Your Roos gallop’d bravely, the fault’s not 
in her; 

We’ll remember at Aix—” for one heard 
the quick wheeze 

Of her chest, saw the stretch’d neck, and 
staggering knees, 

And sunk tail, and horrible heave of the 
flank, 

As down on her haunches she shudder'd 
and sank. 











LEGENDARY AND BALLAD POETRY. 


376 


So wo were left galloping, Joris and I, 

Past Looz and past Tongres, no cloud in 
the sky; 

The broad sun above laugh’d a pitiless 
laugh, 

Neath our feet broke the brittle bright 
stubble like chaff; 

Till over by Dalhem a dome-spire sprang 
white, 

And “ Gallop,” gasp’d Joris, “ for Aix is 
in sight! 

“ How they’ll greet us!”—and all in a 
moment his roan 

Roll'd neck and croup over, lay dead as a 
stone; 

And there was my Roland to bear the 
whole weight 

Of the news which alone could save Aix 
from her fate, 

With his nostrils like pits full of blood to 
the brim, 

And with circles of red for his eye-sockets’ 
rim. 

Then I cast loose my buff coat, each hol¬ 
ster let fall, 

£hook off both my jack-boots, let go belt 
and all, 

Stood up in the stirrup, lean’d, patted his 
ear, 

Call’d my Roland his pet-name, my horse 
without peer; 

Clapp’d my hands, laugh’d and sang, any 
noise, bad or good, 

Till at length into Aix Roland gallop’d 
and stood. 

And all I remember is, friends flocking 
round 

As 1 sate with his head ’twixt my knees on 
the ground, 

And no voice but was praising this Roland 
of mine, 

As I pour’d down his throat our last meas¬ 
ure of wine, 

Which (the burgesses voted by common 
consent) 

Was no more than his due who brought 
good news from Ghent. 

Robert Browning. 


The Lamentation for Celin. 

At the gate of old Granada, when all its 
bolts are barr’d, 

At twilight, at the Yega-gate, there is a 
trampling heard; 

There is a trampling heard, as of horses 
treading slow, 

And a weeping voice of women, and a 
heavy sound of woe. 

What tower is fallen? what star is set? 
what chief come these bewailing? 

“A tower is fallen! a star is set!—Alas! 
alas for Celin!” 

Three times they knock, three times they 
cry,—and wide the doors they throw; 

Dejectedly they enter, and mournfully they 

go; 

In gloomy lines they mustering stand 
beneath the hollow porch, 

Each horseman grasping in his hand a 
black and flaming torch ; 

Wet is each eye as they go by, and all 
around is wailing,— 

For all have heard the misery,—“Alas! 
alas for Celin!” 

Him yesterday a Moor did slay, of Beneer- 
raje’s blood,— 

’Twas at the solemn jousting,—around the 
nobles stood; 

The nobles of the land were by, and ladies 
bright and fair 

Look’d from their latticed windows, the 
haughty sight to share: 

But now the nobles all lament,—the ladies 
are bewailing,— 

For he was Granada’s darling knight,— 
“ Alas! alas for Celin !” 

Before him ride his vassals, in order two 
by two, 

With ashes on their turbans spread, most 
pitiful to view ; 

Behind him his four sisters, each wrapp’d 
in sable veil, 

Between the tambour’s dismal strokes take 
up their doleful tale ; 

When stops the muffled drum, ye hear 
their brotherless bewailing, 

And all the people, far and near, crv.-< 
“ Alas ! alas for Celin !” 














376 


FIRESIDE ENCYCLOPAEDIA OF POETRY. 


Oh, lovely lies he on the bier, above the 
purple pall, 

The flower of all Granada’s youth, the 
loveliest of them all ; 

His dark, dark eyes are closed, his rosy lip 
is pale, 

The crust of blood lies black and dim upon 
his burnish’d mail; 

And evermore the hoarse tambour breaks 
in upon their wailing,— 

Its sound is like no earthly sound,—“Alas! 
alas for Celin!” 

The Moorish maid at the lattice stands,— 
the Moor stands at his door; 

One maid is wringing of her hands, and 
one is weeping sore ; 

Down to the dust men bow their heads, 
and ashes black they strew 

Upon their broider’d garments, of crim¬ 
son, green, and blue; 

Before each gate the bier stands still,— 
then bursts the loud bewailing, 

From door and lattice, high and low,— 

“ Alas! alas for Celin !” 

An old, old woman cometh forth when she 
hears the people cry,— 

Her hair is white as silver, like horn her 
glazed eye; 

’Twas she that nursed him at her breast,— 
that nursed him long ago: 

She knows not whom they all lament, but ! 
soon she well shall know! 

With one deep shriek, she through doth 
break, when her ears receive their 
wailing,— 

w Let me kiss my Celin, ere I die!—Alas! 
alas for Celin !” 

(From the Spanish.) 

John Gibson Lockhart. 


The Wandering Jew. 

When as in faire Jerusalem 
Our Saviour Christ did live, 

And for the sins of all the worlde 
His own deare life did give ; 

The wicked Jewes with scoftes and scornes 
Did dailye him molest, 

That never till he left his life, 

Our Saviour could not rest. 


When they had crown’d his head with 
thornes, 

And scourged him to disgrace, 

In scornfull sort they led him forthe 
Unto his dying place, 

Where thousand thousands in the streete 
Beheld him passe along, 

Yet not one gentle heart was there, 

That pity’d this his wrong. 

Both old and young revilfed him, 

As in the streete he wente, 

And naught he found but churlish tauntes, 
By every ones consente : 

His owne deare crosse he bore himselfe, 

A burthen far too great, 

Which made him in the streete to fainte, 
With blood and water sweat. 

Being weary thus, he sought for rest, 

To ease his burthen’d soule, 

Upon a stone ; the which a wretch 
Did churlishly controule; 

And sayd, Awaye, thou King of Jewes, 
Thou shalt not rest thee here ; 

Pass on ; thy execution-place 
Thou seest nowe drawetli neare. 

And thereupon he thrust him thence; 

At which our Saviour sayd, 

I sure will rest, but thou shalt walke, 

And have no journey stay’d. 

With that this cursed shoemaker, 

For offering Christ this wrong, 

Left wife and children, house and all, 

And went from thence along. 

Where after he had seene the bloude 
Of Jesus Christ thus shed, 

And to the crosse his bodye nail’d, 

Awaye with speed he fled, 

Without returning backe againe 
. Unto his dwelling-place, 

And wandred up and downe the worlde, 

A runnagate most base. 

No resting could he finde at all, 

No ease, nor hearts content; 

No house, nor home, nor hiding-place : 

But wandring forth he went 
From towne to towne in foreigne landes. 
With grieved conscience still, 

Repenting for the heinous guilt 
Of his fore-passed ill. 






LEGENDARY AND BALLAD POETRY. 


377 


Thus after some fewe ages past 
In wandring up and downe ; 

He much again desired to see 
Jerusalems renowne, 

But finding it all quite destroyd, 

He wandred thence with woe, 

Our Saviours wordes, which he had spoke, 
To verifie and showe. 

“I’ll rest, sayd hee, but thou shalt walke.” 

So doth this wandring Jew 
From place to place, but cannot rest 
For seeing countries newe ; 

Declaring still the power of Him, 

Whereas he comes or goes, 

And of all things done in the east, 

Since Christ his death he showes. 

The world he hath still compast round 
And seene those nations strange, 

That hearing of the name of Christ, 

Their idol gods doe change : 

To whom he hath told wondrous thinges 
Of time forepast, and gone, 

And to the princes of the worlde 
Declares his cause of moane: 

Desiring still to be dissolved, 

And yeild his mortal breath ; 

But if the Lord hath thus decreed, 

He shall not yet see death. 

For neither lookes he old nor young, 

But as he did those times, 

When Christ did suffer on the crosse 
For mortall sinners crimes. 

He hath past through many a foreigue 
place, 

Arabia, Egypt, Africa, 

Grecia, Syria, and great Thrace, 

And throughout all Hungaria, 

Where Paul and Peter preached Christ, 
Those blest apostles deare ; 

There he hath told our Saviours wordes, 

In countries far and neare. 

And lately in Bohemia, 

With many a German towne ; 

And now in Flanders, as ’tis thought, 

He wandreth up and downe : 

Where learned men with him conferre 
Of those his lingering dayes, 

And wonder much to heare him tell 
Ilis journeyes, and his waves. 


If people give this Jew an almes, 

The most that he will take 
Is not above a groat a time : 

Which he, for Jesus’ sake, 

Will kindlye give unto the poore, 

And thereof make no spare, 

Affirming still that Jesus Christ 
Of him hath dailye care. 

He ne'er was seene to laugh nor smile, 
But weepe and make great moane ; 
Lamenting still his miseries, 

And dayes forepast and gone : 

If he heare any one blaspheme, 

Or take God’s name in vaine, 

He telles them that they crucifie 
Their Saviour Christe againe. 

If you had seene his death, saith he, 

As these mine eyes have done, 

Ten thousand thousand times would yee 
Flis torments think upon : 

And suffer for his sake all paine 
Of torments, and all woes. 

These are his wordes and eke his life 
Whereas he comes or goes. 

Author Unknown. 

The Dream of Eugene Aram. 

’Twas in the prime of summer-time, 

An evening calm and cool, 

And four-and-twenty happy boys 
Came bounding out of school: 

There were some that ran and some thal 
leapt, 

Like troutlets in a pool. 

Away they sped with gamesome minds, 
And souls untouch’d by sin; 

To a level mead they came, and there 
They drave the wickets in : 

Pleasantly shone the setting sun 
Over the town of Lynn. 

Like sportive deer they coursed about, 
And shouted as they ran,— 

Turning to mirth all things of earth 
As only boyhood can ; 

But the Usher sat remote from all, 

A melancholy man! 





378 


FIRESIDE ENCYCLOPEDIA OF POETRY. 


His hat was off, his vest apart, 

To catch Heaven’s blessed breeze ; 

For a burning thought was in his brow, 
And his bosom ill at ease: 

So he leau’d his head on his hands, and 
read 

The book between his knees. 

Leaf after leaf he turn’d it o’er, 

Nor ever glanced aside, 

For the peace of his soul he read that 
book 

In the golden eventide: 

Much study had made him very lean, 

And pale, and leaden-eyed. 

At last he shut the ponderous tome, 

With a fast and fervent grasp 
He strain’d the dusky covers close, 

And fixed the brazen hasp: 

“ O God! could I so close my mind, 

And clasp it with a clasp!” 

Then leaping on his feet upright, 

Some moody turns he took,— 

Now up the mead, then down the mead, 
And past a shady nook,— 

And, lo ! he saw a little boy 
That pored upon a book 

“ My gentle lad, what is’t you read— 
Romance or fairy fable? 

Or is it some historic page, 

Of kings and crowns unstable?” 

The young boy gave an upward glance,— 
“ It is ‘ The Death of Abel.’ ” 

The Usher took six hasty strides, 

As smit with sudden pain,— 

Six hasty strides beyond the place, 

Then slowly back again, 

And down he sat beside the lad, 

And talk’d with him of Cain, 

And, long since then, of bloody men, 
Whose deeds tradition saves, 

Of lonely folk cut off unseen, 

And hid in sudden graves, 

Of horrid stabs, in groves forlorn, 

And murders done in Caves; 

4.lid how the sprites of injured men 
Shriek upward from the sod,— 


I Ay, how the ghostly hand will point 
To show the burial clod, 

And unknown facts of guilty acts 
Are seen in dreams from God ! 

He told how murderers walk the earth, 
Beneath the curse of Cain, 

With crimson clouds before their eyes, 
And flames about their brain : 

For blood lias left upon their souls 
Its everlasting stain. 

“And well,” quoth he, “ I know for truth. 
Their pangs must be extreme; 

Woe, woe, unutterable woe, 

Who spill life’s sacred stream ! 

For why? Methought, last night I wrought 
A murder in a dream. 

“ One that had never done me wrong, 

A feeble man and old; 

I led him to a lonely field, 

The moon shone clear and cold : 

Now here, said I, this man shall die, 

And I will have his gold ! 

“ Two sudden blows with ragged stick, 
And one with a heavy stone, 

One hurried gash with a hasty knife,—■ 
And then the deed was done : 

There was nothing lying at my foot 
But lifeless flesh and bone ! 

“ Nothing but lifeless flesh and bone, 

That could not do me ill, 

And yet I fear’d him all the more, 

For lying there so still; 

There was a manhood in his look 
That murder could not kill! 

“ And lo ! the universal air 
Seem’d lit with ghastly flame; 

Ten thousand thousand dreadful eyes 
Were looking down in blame: 

I took the dead man by his hand, 

And call’d upon his name ! 

“ 0 God! it made me quake to see 
Such sense within the slain ; 

But when I touch’d the lifeless clay, 

The blood gush’d out amain ! 

For every clot, a burning spot 
Was scorching in my brain ! 








LEGENDARY AND BALLAD POETRY. 


37 V* 


“ My head was like an ardent coal, 

My heart as solid ice ; 

"My wretched, wretched soul, I knew, 

Was at the Devil’s price: 

A dozen times I groan’d ; the dead 
Had never groan’d but twice ! 

• And now, from forth the frowning sky, 
From the heavens’ topmost height, 

I heard a voice—the awful voice 
()f the blood-avenging Sprite :— 

• Thou guilty man ! take up thy dead 

A nd hide it from my sight!’ 

“ 1 took the dreary body up, 

And cast it in a stream,— 

A sluggish water, black as ink, 

The depth was so extreme:— 

My gentle Boy, remember this 
Is nothing but a dream ! 

“ Down went the corse with a hollow 
plunge, 

And vanish’d in the pool; 

Anon I cleansed my bloody hands, 

And wash’d my forehead cool, 

And sat among the urchins young, 

That evening in the school. 

“ Oh, Heaven! to think of their white 
souls, 

A nd mine so black and grim ! 

I could not share in childish prayer, 

Nor join in Evening Hymn : 

Like a Devil of the Pit I seem’d, 

’Mid holy Cherubim ! 

“ And peace went with them, one and all, 
A nd each calm pillow spread ; 

But Guilt was my grim Chamberlain 
That lighted me to bed ; 

And drew my midnight curtains round, 
With fingers bloody red! 

' All night I lay in agony, 

1 n anguish dark and deep; 

My fever’d eyes I dared not close, 

But stared aghast at Sleep: 

For Sin had render’d unto her 
The keys of Hell to keep ! 

“ All night I lay in agony, 

From weary chime to chime, 

With one besetting, horrid hint, 

That rack’d me all the time ; 


] A mighty yearning, like the first 
Fierce impulse unto crime! 

“ One stern, tyrannic thought, that made 
All other thoughts its slave ; 
i Stronger and stronger every pulse 
Did that temptation crave,— 

; Still urging me to go and see 
| The dead man in his grave ! 

“ Heavily I rose up, as soon 
As light was in the sky, 

And sought the black accursed pool 
With a wild misgiving eye; 

And I saw the Dead in the river bed, 

For the faithless stream was dry. 

“ Merrily rose the lark, and shook 
The dewdrop from its wing ; 

But I never mark’d its morning flight, 

I never heard it sing: 
j For I was stooping once again 
j Under the horrid thing. 

i “ With breathless speed, like a soul in 
chase, 

I took him up and ran ;— 

There was no time to dig a grave 
Before the day began : 

In a lonesome wood, with heaps of leaves. 
I hid the murder’d man ! 

“ And all that dav I read in school, 

But my thought was other where ; 

As soon as the midday task was done, 

In secret I was there : 

! And a mighty wind had swept the leaves 
l And still the corse was bare! 

| “ Then down I cast me on my face, 

And first began to weep, 

For I knew my secret then was one 
That earth refused to keep : 

Or land or sea, though he should be 
Ten thousand fathoms deep. 

“ So wills the fierce avenging Sprite, 

Till blood for blood atones! 
j Ay, though he’s buried in a cave, 

And trodden down with stones, 
i And years have rotted off his flesh,— 

The world shall see his bones ! 

I “ 0 God ! that horrid, horrid dream 
Besets me now awake ! 






380 


FIRESIDE ENCYCLOPAEDIA OF POETRY 


Again—again, with dizzy brain, 

The human life I take ; 

And my right red hand grows raging hot, 
Like Cranmer’s at the stake. 

“ And still no peace for the restless clay, 
Will wave or mould allow ; 

The horrid thing pursues my soul,— 

It stands before me now !” 

The fearful boy look’d up and saw 
Huge drops upon his brow. 

That very night, while gentle sleep 
The urchin eyelids kiss’d, 

Two stern-faced men set out from Lynn, 
Through the cold and heavy mist; 

And Eugene Aram walk’d between, 

With gyves upon his wrist. 

Thomas Hood. 

The Inchcape Rock. 

No stir in the air, no stir in the sea, 

The ship was still as she could be; 

Her sails from heaven received no motion, 
Her keel was steady in the ocean. 

Without either sign or sound of their 
shock 

The waves flow’d over the Inchcape Rock ; 
So little they rose, so little they fell, 

They did not move the Inchcape Bell. 

The Abbot of Aberbrothok 
Had placed that bell on the Inchcape 
Rock', 

()n a buoy in the storm it floated and swung, 
And over the waves its warning rung. 

When the rock was hid by the surges’ 
swell, 

The mariners heard the warning bell, 

And then they knew the perilous rock, 

. And bless’d the Abbot of Aberbrothok. 

The sun in heaven was shining gay, 

All things were joyful on that day; 

The sea-birds scream’d as they wheel’d 
round, 

And there was joyaunce in their sound. 

The buoy of the Inchcape Bell was seen 
A darker speck on the ocean green ; 

Sir Ralph the Rover walk’d his deck, 

And he fix’d his eye on the darker speck. 


He felt the cheering power of spring, 

It made him whistle, it made him sing, 

His heart was mirthful to excess, 

But the Rover’s mirth was wickedness. 

His eye was on the Inchcape float; 

Quoth he, “My men, put out the boat, 

And row me to the Inchcape Rock, 

And I’ll plague the Abbot of Aberbrothok.” 

The boat is lower’d, the boatmen row, 

And to the Inchcape Rock they go; 

Sir Ralph bent over from the boat, 

And he cut the bell from the Inchcape float. 

Down sank the bell with a gurgling sound, 
The bubbles rose and burst around ; 

Quoth Sir Ralph, “The next who comes to 
the rock 

Won’t bless the Abbot of Aberbrothok.” 

Sir Ralph the Rover sail’d away, 

He scour’d the seas for many a day, 

And now, grown rich with plunder’d store, 
He steers his course for Scotland’s shore. 

So thick a haze o’erspreads the sky, 

They cannot see the sun on high; 

The wind hath blown a gale all day, 

At evening it hath died away. 

On the deck the Rover takes his stand; 

So dark it is they see no land. 

Quoth Sir Ralph, “ It will be lighter soon, 
For there is the dawn of the rising moon.” 

“ Canst hear,” said one, “ the breakers 
roar ? 

For methinks we should be near the shore.” 
“ Now, where we are I cannot tell, 

But I w r ish I could hear the Inchcape 
Bell.” 

They hear no sound, the swell is strong, 
Though the wind hath fallen, they drift 
along, 

Till the vessel strikes with a shivering 
shock,— 

“ 0 Death! it is the Inchcape Rock.” 

Sir Ralph the Rover tore his hair, 

He cursed himself in his despair ; 

The waves rush in on every side, • 

The ship is sinking beneath the tide. 











LEGENDARY AND BALLAD POETRY. 


181 


But, even in his dying fear, 

One dreadful sound could the Rover hear, 
A sound as if, with the Inchcape Bell, 

• R he Devil below was ringing his knell. 

Robert Southey, 


Cum nor Hall. 

The dews of summer night did fall, 

The moon, sweet regent of the sky, 
Silver’d the walls of Cumnor Hall 
And many an oak that grew thereby. 

Now naught was heard beneath the skies, 
The sounds of busy life were still, 

Save an unhappy lady’s sighs, 

That issued from that lonely pile. 

“ Leicester,” she cried, “ is this thy love 
That thou so oft has sworn to me, 

To leave me in this lonely grove, 

Immured in shameful privity? 

“ No more thou com’st with lover’s speed, 
Thy once-belovhd bride to see, 

But be she alive, or be she dead, 

I fear, stern Earl, ’s the same to thee. 

“ Not so the usage I received 
When happy in my father’s hall; 

No faithless husband then me grieved, 

No chilling fears did me appall. 

“ I rose up with the cheerful morn, 

No lark more blithe, no flower more gay, 
And like the bird that haunts the thorn, 
So merrily sung the livelong day. 

“ If that my beauty is but small, 

Among court ladies all despised, 

Why didst thou rend it from that hall, 
Where, scornful Earl, it well was prized? 

“ And when you first to me made suit, 
How fair I was you oft would say! 

And, proud of conquest, pluck’d the fruit, 
Then left the blossom to decay. 

“ Yes ! now neglected and despised, 

The rose is pale, the lily’s dead, 

But he that once their charms so prized 
Is sure the cause those charms are fled. 


“For know, when sickening grief doth 
prey, 

And tender love’s repaid with scorn, 

The sweetest beauty will decay,—• 

What floweret can endure the sto^m ? 

“ At court, I’m told, is beauty’s throne, 
Where every lady’s passing rare, 

That Eastern flowers, that shame the sun, 
Are not so glowing, not so fair. 

“ Then, Earl, why didst thou leave the beds 
Where roses and where lilies vie, 

To seek a primrose, whose pale shades 
Must sicken when those gauds are by ? 

“ ’Mong rural beauties I was one, 

Among the fields wild flowers are fair; 
Some country swain might me have won, 
And thought my beauty passing rare. 

“ But, Leicester (or I much am wrong), 

Or ’tis not beauty lures thy vows ; 
Rather ambition’s gilded crown 

Makes thee forget thy humble spouse. 

“ Then, Leicester, why, again I plead 
(The injured surely may repine), 

Why didst thou wed a country maid, 
When some fair princess might be thine? 

“ Why didst thou praise my humble 
charms, 

And, oh! then leave them to decay? 
Why didst thou win me to thy arms, 

Then leave to mourn the livelong day? 

“The village maidens of the plain 
Salute me lowly as they go; 

Envious they mark my silken train, 

Nor think a countess can have woe. 

“The simple nymphs! they little know 
How far more happy’s their estate; 

To smile for joy, than sigh for woe— 

To be content, than to be great. 

“ How far less blest am I than them? 

Daily to pine and waste with care! 

Like the poor plant, that, from its stem 
Divided, feels the chilling air. 

“Nor, cruel Earl! can I enjoy 
The humble charms of solitude; 

Your minions proud my peace destroy, 

By sullen frowns or pratings rude. 










382 


FIRESIDE ENCYCLOPAEDIA OF POETRY. 


“ Last night, as sad I chanced to stray, 
The village death-bell smote my ear; 

They wink’d aside, and seem’d to say, 
‘Countess, prepare, thy end is near!’ 

“And now, while happy peasants sleep, 
Here I sit lonely and forlorn ; 

No one to soothe me as I weep, 

Save Philomel on yonder thorn. 

“ My spirits flag—my hopes decay— 

Still that dread death-bell smites my 
ear; 

And many a boding seems to say, 

‘Countess, prepare, thy end is near!’ ” 

Thus sore and sad that lady grieved, 

In Cumnor Hall, so lone and drear; 

And many a heartfelt sigh she heaved, 
And let fall many a bitter tear. 

And ere the dawn.of day appear’d. 

In Cumnor Hall, so lone and drear, 

Full many a piercing scream was heard, 
And many a cry of mortal fear. 

The death-bell thrice was heard to ring, 

An aerial voice was heard to call, 

And thrice the raven flapp’d its wing 
Around the towers of Cumnor Hall. 

The mastiff howl’d at village door, 

The oaks were shatter’d on the green; 

Woe was the hour—for never more 
That hapless Countess e’er was seen. 

And in that manor now no more 
Is cheerful feast and sprightly ball; 

For ever since that dreary hour 
Have spirits haunted Cumnor Hall. 

The village maids, with fearful glance, 
Avoid the ancient moss-grown jvall; 

Nor ever lead the merry dance, 

Among the groves of Cumnor Hall. 

Full many a traveller oft hath sigh’d, 

And pensive wept the Countess’ fall, 

As wandering onward they’ve espied 
The haunted towers of Cumnor Hall. 

William Julius Mickle. 


Ed wa rd, Ed wa rd. 

Quhy dois zour brand sae drop wi’ blind, 
Edward, Edward? 

Quhy dois zour brand sae drop wi’ bluid ? 

And quhy sae sad gang zee, 0? 

O, T hae kill’d ray hauke sae guid, 

Mither, mitber: 

0, I hae kill’d my hauke sae guid: 

And I had nae mair bot hee, 0. 

Zour haukis bluid was nevir sae reid, 
Edward, Edward. 

Zour haukis bluid was nevir sae reid, 

My deir. son I tell thee, O. 

O, I hae kill’d my reid-roan steid, 

Mither, mither: 

0, I hae kill’d my reid-roan steid, 

That erst was sae fair and free, O. 

Zour steid was auld, and ze hae gat 
mair, 

Edward, Edward: 

Zour steid was auld, and ze hae gat mair. 
Sum other dule ze drie, O. 

O, I hae kill’d my fadir deir, 

Mither, mither: 

O, I hae kill’d my fadir deir, 

Alas ! and wae is mee, O ! 

And quhatten penance wul ze drie for 
that, 

Edward, Edward? 

And quhatten penance will ze drie for that ? 

My deir son, now tell me, O. 
lie set my feit in zonder boat, 

Mither, mither: 
lie set my feit in zonder boat, 

And lie fare ovir the sea, O. 

And quhat wul ze doe wi’ zour towirs and 
zour ha’, 

Edward, Edward ? 

And quhat wul ze doe wi’ zour towirs and 
zour ha’, 

That ware sae fair to see, O ? 

He let thame stand til they doun fa’, 
Mither, mither: 

He let thame stand til they doun fa’, 

For here nevir mair maun I bee, 0. 






LEGENDARY AND BALLAD POETRY . 


3811 


And quhat wul ze leive to zour bairns and 
zour wife, 

Edward, Edward? 

And quhat wul ze leive to zour bairns and 
zour wife, 

Quhan ze gang ovir the sea, 0 ? 

The warldis room, let tharne beg throw 
life, 

Mither, mither: 

The warldis room, let thame beg throw 
life, 

For thame nevir mair wul I see, O. 

And quhat wul ze leive to zour ain mither 
deir, 

Edward, Edward? 

And quhat wul ze leive to zour ain mither 
deir? 

My deir son, now tell me, O. 

The curse of hell frae me sail ze heir, 

Mither, mither: 

The curse of hell frae me sail ze heir, 

Sic counseils ze gave to me, O. 

Author Unknown. 


Lord Ullin’s Daughter. 

A chieftain, to the Highlands bound, 
Cries, “ Boatman, do not tarry ! 

And I’ll give thee a silver pound 
To row us o’er the ferry.” 

“ Now, who be ye would cross Loch Gyle, 
This dark and stormy water?” 

“ Oh ! I’m the chief of Ulva’s isle, 

And this—Lord Ullin’s daughter. 

“ And fast before her father’s men, 

Three days we’ve fled together, 

For should he find us in the glen, 

My blood would stain the heather. 

“ His horsemen hard behind us ride; 
Should they our steps discover, 

Then who will cheer my bonny bride 
When they have slain her lover ?” 

Out spake the hardy Highland wight, 

“ I’ll go, my chief—I’m ready: 

It is not for your silver bright, 

But for your winsome lady : 

“ And, by my word ! the bonny bird 
In danger shall not tarry ; 


So, though the waves are raging white, 

I’ll row you o’er the ferry.” 

By this, the storm grew loud apace, 

The water-wraith was shrieking; 

And, iu the scowl of heaven, each face 
Grew dark as they were speaking. 

But still, as wilder blew the wind, 

And as the night grew drearer, 

Adown the glen rode armed men, 

Their trampling sounded nearer. 

“ Oh haste thee, haste J” the lady cries, 

“ Though tempests round us gather, 

I’ll meet the raging of the skies, 

But not an angry father.” 

The boat has left a stormy land, 

A stormy sea before her— 

When, oh, too strong for human hand. 
The tempest gather’d o’er her. 

j And still they row’d, amidst the roar 
Of waters fast prevailing: 

Lord Ullin reach’d that fatal shore, 

His wrath was changed to wailing. 

For, sore dismay’d, through storm and 
shade, 

His child he did discover ; 

; One lovely arm she stretch’d for aid, 

And one was round her lover. 

“Come back! come back!” lie cried in 
grief, 

“ Across this stormy water : 

And I’ll forgive your Highland chief, 

My daughter! O mv daughter !” 

’Twas vain: the loud waves lash’d the 
shore, 

Return, or aid preventing : 

The waters wild went o’er his child, 

And he was left lamenting. 

Thomas Campbell. 


The Dowie Dens of Yarrow. 

Late at e’en, drinking the wine, 
And ere they paid the lawing, 
They set a combat them between, 

To fight it in the dawing. 







884 


FIRESIDE ENCYCLOPAEDIA OF POETRY 


“ Oh stay at hame, my noble lord ! 

Oh stay at hame, my marrow! 

My cruel brother will you betray 
On the dowie houms of Yarrow.” 

“ Oh fare ye weel, my ladye gaye ! 

Oh fare ye weel, my Sarah ! 

For I maun gae, though I ne’er return 
Frae the dowie banks o’ Yarrow.” 

She kiss’d his cheek, she kaim’d his hair, 
As oft she had done before, oh ; 

She belted him with his noble brand, 

And he’s away to Yarrow. 

As he gaed up the Tennies bank, 

I wot he gaed wi’ sorrow, 

Till, down in a den, he spied nine arm’d 
men, 

On the dowie houms of Yarrow. 

“ Oh come ye here to part your land, 

The bonnie forest thorough? 

Or come ye here to wield your brand,— 

On the dowie houms of Yarrow?”— 

“ I come not here to part my land, 

. A ml neither to beg nor borrow; 

1 come to wield my noble brand, 

On the bonnie banks of Yarrow. 

“If I see all, ye’re nine to ane; 

And that’s an unequal marrow: 

Yet will I fight, while lasts my brand, 

On the bonnie banks of Yarrow.” 

Four has he hurt, and five has slain, 

On the bonnie braes of Yarrow, 

Till that stubborn knight came him be¬ 
hind, 

And ran his body thorough. 

“ Gae hame, gae hame, good brother John, 
And tell your sister Sarah, 

To come and lift her leafu’ lord ; 

He’s sleepin’ sound on Yarrow.”— 

“Yestreen I dream’d a dolefu’ dream: 

I fear there will be sorrow! 

I dream’d I pu’d the heather green, 

Wi’ my true love, on Yarrow. 

“ 0 gentle wind, that bloweth south, 

From where my love repaireth, 

Convey a kiss from his dear mouth, 

And tell me how he fareth! 


“ But in the glen strive armfed men ; 

They’ve wrought me dole and sorrow; 
They’ve slain—the comeliest knight they’ve 
slain—• 

He bleeding lies on Yarrow.” 

As she sped down yon high, high hill, 

She gaed wi’ dole and sorrow, 

And in the den spied ten slain men, 

On the dowie banks of Yarrow. 

She kiss’d his cheeks, she kaim’d his hair, 
She search’d his wounds all thorough; 
She kiss’d them, till her lips grew red, 

On the dowie houms of Yarrow. 

“Now baud your tongue, my daughter 
• dear! 

For a’ this breeds but sorrow; 

I’ll wed ye to a better lord 
Than him ye lost on Yarrow.”— 

“Oli baud your tongue, my father dear! 

Ye ’mind me but of sorrow; 

A fairer rose did never bloom 
Than now lies cropp’d on Yarrow.” 

Author Unknown. 


The Braes of Yarrow. 

Busic ye, busk ye, my bonny bonny bride, 
Busk ye, busk ye, my winsome marrow, 

Busk ye, busk ye, my bonny bonny bride, 
And think nae mail’ on the Braes of 
Yarrow. 

Where gat ye that bonny bonny bride ? 
Where gat ye that winsome marrow ? 

I gat her where I dare na weil be seen, 
Pu’ing the birks on the Braes of Yarrow. 

Weep not, weep not, my bonny bonny 
bride, 

Weep not, weep not, my winsome mar¬ 
row ; 

Nor let thy heart lament to leive, 

Pu’ing the birks on the Braes of Yarrow. 

Why does she weep, thy bonny bonny 
bride ? 

Why does she weep, thy winsome mar¬ 
row ? 

And why dare ye nae mair weil be seen 
Pu’ing the birks on the Braes of Yarrow ? 









LEGENDARY AND BALLAD POETRY. 


Lang maun she weep, lang maun she, 
maun she weep, 

Lang maun she weep with chile and sor¬ 
row ; 

And lang maun I nae mair weil be seen 
Pu’ing the birks on the Braes of Yarrow. 

For she has tint her luver, luver dear, 

Her luver dear, the cause of sorrow; 

And I hae slain the eomeliest swain, 

That eir pu’d birks on the Braes of Yar¬ 
row. 

Why rins thy stream, O Yarrow, Yarrow, 
reid ? 

Why on thy braes heard the voice of 
sorrow ? 

And why yon melancholious weids 
Hung on the bonny birks of Yarrow? 

What’s yonder floats on the rueful rueful 
flude ? 

What’s yonder floats ? Oh dule and sor¬ 
row ! 

Oh ’tis he the comely swain I slew 
Upon the duleful Braes of Yarrow. 

Wash, oh wash his wounds, his wounds in 
tears, . 

H is wounds in tears with dule and sor¬ 
row ; 

And wrap his limbs in mourning weids, 
And lay him on the Braes of Yarrow. 

Then build, then build, ye sisters, sisters 
sad, 

A"e sisters sad, his tomb with sorrow ; 

And weep around in waeful wise 
His hapless fate on the Braes of Yar¬ 
row. 

Curse ye, curse ye, his useless, useless 
shield, 

My arm that wrought the deed of sor¬ 
row ; 

The fatal spear that pierced his breast, 

His comely breast, on the Braes of Yar¬ 
row. 

Did I not warn thee, not to, not to luve? 
And warn from fight? but to my sor¬ 
row 

Too rashly bauld a stronger arm 

Thou mett’st, and fell’st on the Braes of 
Yarrow. 

25 




Sweet smells the birk, green grows, green 
grows the grass, 

Yellow on Yarrow’s bank the gowan, 
Fair hangs the apple frae the rock, 

Sweet the wave of Yarrow flowan. 

Flows Yarrow sweet? as sweet, as sweet 
flows Tweed, 

As green its grass, its gowan as yellow, 
As sweet smells on its braes the birk. 

The apple frae its rocks as mellow. 

Fair was thy luve, fair fair indeed thy 
luve, 

In flow’ry bands thou didst him fetter; 
Tho’ he was fair, and weil beluv’d again 
Than me he never luv’d thee better. 

Busk ye, then busk, my bonny bonny 
bride, 

Busk ye, busk ye, my winsome marrow, 
Busk ye, and luve me on the banks of 
Tweed, 

And think nae mair on the Braes of 
Yarrow. 

How can I busk a bonny bonny bride ? 

How can I busk a winsome marrow ? 
How luve him upon the banks of Tweed, 
That slew my luve on the Braes of Yar¬ 
row ? 

O A T arrow fields, may never never rain 
Nor dew thy tender blossoms cover, 

For there was basely slain my luve, 

My luve, as he had not been a lover. 

The boy put on his robes, his robes of 
green, 

His purple vest, ’twas my awn sewing: 
Ah, wretched me! I little, little kenn’d 
He was in these to meet his ruin. 

The boy took out his milk-white, milk 
white steed, 

Unheedful of my dule and sorrow : 

But ere the toofall of the night 

He lay a corps on the Braes of Yarrow. 

Much I rejoyced that waeful waeful day ; 

I sang, my voice the woods returning : 
But lang e’er night the spear was flown, 
That slew my luve, and left me mourn- 
ing. 










FIRESIDE EX CYCLOl YEDI A OF POETRY. 


M8li 


What can my barbarous barbarous father 
do, 

But with his cruel rage pursue me ? 

My luver’s blood is on thy spear, 

How canst thou, barbarous man, then 
wooe me ? 

Mv happy sisters may be, may be proud 
With cruel and ungentle scoffin’, 

May bid me seek on Yarrow’s Braes 
My luver nailed in his coffin. 

My brother Douglas may upbraid, upbraid, 
And strive with threat’ning words to 
muve me: 

My luver’s blood is on thy spear, 

How canst thou ever bid me hive thee? 

Yes, yes, prepare the bed, the bed of luve, 
With bridal sheets my body cover, 
Unbar, ye bridal maids, the door, 

Let in the expected husband-lover. 

But who the expected husband husband 
is? 

His hands, methinks, are bathed in 
slaughter: 

Ah me ! what ghastly spectre’s yon 
(Jomes in his pale shroud, bleeding after. 

Pale as he is, here lay him, lay him down, 
()h lay his cold head on my pillow ; 
Take aff, take aff these bridal weids, 

And crown my careful head with wil¬ 
low. 

Pale tho’ thou art, yet best, yet best be- 
luv’d, 

Oh could my warmth to life restore thee ! 
Yet lye all night between my breists, 

No youth lay ever there before thee. 

Pale, pale indeed, O luvelv luvely youth ! 

Forgive, forgive so foul a slaughter : 
And lye all night between my breists ; 

No youth shall ever lye there after. 

Return, return, O mournful mournful 
bride, 

Return, and dry thy useless sorrow : 

Thy luver heeds none of thy sighs, * 

He lyes a corps in the Braes of Yarrow. 

William Hamilton of Bangocr. 


The Braes of Yarrow. 

Thy braes were bonny. Yarrow stream, 
When first on them J met my lover; 
Thy braes how dreary, Yarrow stream, 
When now thy waves his body cover ' 
For ever now, O Yarrow stream! 

Thou art to me a stream of sorrow; 

For never on thy banks shall I 

Behold my love, the flower of Yarrow. 

He promised me a milk-white steed 
To bear me to his father’s bowers; 
lie promised me a little page 
To squire me to his father’s towers; 

He promised me a wedding-ring,— 

The wedding-day was fix’d to-morrow 
Now he is wedded to his grave, 

Alas, his watery grave, in Yarrow ! 

Sweet were his words when last we met; 

My passion f as freely told him ; 

Clasp’d in his arms, 1 little thought 
That I should never more behold him ! 
Scarce was he gone, I saw his ghost; 

It vanish’d with a shriek of sorrow ; 
Thrice did the water-wraith ascend, 

And.gave a doleful groan thro’ Yarrow. 

His mother from the window look’d 
With all the longing of a mother; 

His little sister weeping walk’d 
The greenwood path to meet her brother, 
They sought him east, they sought him 
west, 

They sought him all the forest thorough: 
They only saw the cloud of night, 

They only heard the roar of Yarrow. 

No longer from thy w indow look— 

Thou hast no son, thou tender mother ! 
No longer walk, thou lovely maid ; 

Alas, thou hast no more a brother ! 

No longer seek him east or west, 

And search no more the forest thorough : 
For, wandering in the night so dark, 

He fell a lifeless corpse in Yarrow. 

The tear shall never leave my cheek, 

No other youth shall be my marrow— 
I’ll seek thy body in the stream. 

And then with thee I’ll sleep in Yarrow'. 










LEGENDARY AND BALLAD POETRY. 


387 


—The tear did never leave her cheek, 

No other youth became her marrow ; 

She found his body in the stream, 

And now with him she sleeps in Yarrow. 

John Logan. 

The Child of Elle. 

On yonder hill a castle standes 
With walles and towres bedight, 

And yonder lives the Child of Elle, 

A younge and comely knighte. 

The child of Elle to his garden went, 

And stood at his garden pale, 

Whan, lo! he beheld fair Emmelines page 1 
Come trippinge downe the dale. 

The Child of Elle he hyed him thence, 
Y-wis he stoode not stille, 

And soone he mette fair Emmelines page 
Come climbing up the hille. 

Nowe Chr iste thee save, thou little foot-page, 
Now Christe thee save and see! 

Oh tell me how does thy ladye gave, 

And what may thy tydinges bee? 

My lady she is all woe-begone, 

And the teares they falle from her eyne ; 
And aye she laments the deadlye feude 
Betweene her house and thine. 

And here shee sends thee a silken scarfe 
Bedew'de with many a teare, 

And biddes thee sometimes thinke on her, 
Who lovfed thee so deare. 

And here she sends thee a ring of golde, 
The last boone thou mayst have, 

And biddes thee weare it for her sake, 
When she is layde in grave. 

For, ah ! her gentle heart is broke, 

And in grave soon must shee bee, 

Sith her father hath chose her a new new 
love, 

And forbidde her to think of thee. 

Her father hath brought her a carlish 
knight, 

Sir John of the north countrkye, 

And within three dayes shee must him 
wedde, 

Or he vowes he will her slave. 


Nowe hye thee backe, thou little foot-page, 
And greet thy ladye from mee, 

And tell her that I her owne true love 
Will dye, or sette her free. 

Nowe hye thee backe. thou little foot-page, 
And let thy fair ladye know 
This night will I bee at her bowre-win- 
dowe, 

Betide me weale or woe. 

The boye he tripped, the boye he ranne, 
He neither stint lie stayd 
Untill he came to fair Emmelines bowre. 
Whan kneeling downe he sayd, 

O ladye, I’ve been with thy own true love, 
And he greets thee well by mee; 

This night will he be at thy bowre-win- 
dbwe, 

And dye or sette thee free. 

Nowe daye was gone and night was come, 
And all were fast asleepe, 

All save the ladve Emmeline, 

Who sate in her bowre to weepe: 

And soone she heard her true loves voice 
Lowe whispering at the walle, 

Awake, awake, my dear ladyfe, 

’Tis I thy true love call. 

j Awake, awake, my ladye deare, 

Come, mount this faire pal fray e; 
j This ladder of ropes will lette thee downe, 
He carrye thee hence awaye. 

Now r e nay, nowe nay, thou gentle knight, 
Nowe nay, this may not bee; 

For aye shold I tint my maiden fame, 

If alone I should wend with thee. 

O ladye, thou with a knighte so true 
Mayst safely w'end alone, 

To my ladye mother I will thee bringe, 
Where marriage shall make us one. 

“ My father he is a baron bolde, 

Of lynage proude and hye ; 

And what would he save if his daughter 
Awave with a knight should fly? 

Ah ! well I w r ot, he never would rest, 

Nor his meate should doe him no goode 
Until he had slayne thee, Child of Elle, 
And seene thv deare hearts bloode.” 









FIRESIDE ENCYCLOPAEDIA OF POETRY. 


•!X8 


O ladye, wert thou in thy saddle sette, 
And a little space him fro, 

I would not care for thy cruel father, 

Nor the worst that he could doe. 

0 ladye, wert thou in thy saddle sette, 
And once without this walle, 

I would not care for thy cruel father, 

Nor the worst that might befalle. 

Faire Emmeline sighed, fair Emmeline 
wept, 

And aye her heart was woe: 

At length he seized her lilly-white hand, 
And downe the ladder he drewe: 

And thrice he clasp’d her to his breste, 
And kist her tenderize : 

The teares that fell from her fair eyes 
Ranne like the fountayne free. 

Hee mounted himselfe on his steede so 
talle, 

And her on a fair palfrkye, 

And slung his bugle about his necke, 

And roundlye they rode awaye. 

All this beheard her own damselle, 

In her bed whereas shee ley, 

Quoth shee, My lord shall knowe of this, 
Soe I shall have golde and fee. 

Awake, awake, thou baron bolde! 

Awake, my noble dame! 

Your daughter is fledde with the Child of 
Elle 

To doe the deede of shame. 

The baron he woke, the baron he rose, 
And call’d his merrye men all: 

“And come thou forth, Sir John the 
knighte, 

Thy ladye is carried to thrall.” 

Faire Emmeline scant had ridden a mile, 
A mile forth of the towne, 

When she was aware of her fathers men 
Come galloping over the downe: 

And foremost came the carlish knight, 

Sir John of the north countraye: 

“ Nowe stop, nowe stop, thou false traitoure, 
Nor carry that ladye awaye. 

For she is come of hye linkage, 

And was of a ladye borne, 


And ill it beseems thee a false churl’s 
sonne 

To carrve her hence to scorne.” 

Nowe loud thou lyest, Sir John the knight, 
Nowe thou doest lye of mee ; 

A knight mee gott, and a ladye me bore, 
Soe never did none by thee. 

But light nowe downe, my ladye faire, 
Light downe, and hold my steed, 

While I and this discourteous knighte 
Doe trye this arduous deede. 

But light nowe downe, my deare ladyfe, 
Light downe, and hold my horse; 

While I and this discourteous knight 
Doe trye our valour’s force. 

Fair Emmeline sigh’d, fair Emmeline 
wept, 

And aye her heart was woe, 

While ’twixt her love and the carlish 
knight 

Past many a baleful blowe. 

The Child of Elle hee fought soe well, 

As his weapon he waved amaine, 

That soone he had slaine the carlish knight, 
And layd him upon the plaine. 

And nowe the baron and all his men 
Full fast approached nye : 

Ah ! what may ladye Emmeline doe? 
’Twere nowe no boote to flye. 

Her lover he put his home to his mouth, 
And blew both loud and shrill, 

And soone he saw his owne merry men 
Come ryding over the hill. 

“Nowe hold thy hand, thou bold baron, 

I pray thee hold thy hand, 

Nor ruthless rend two gentle hearts 
Fast knit in true love’s band. 

Thy daughter I have dearly loved 
Full long and many a day ; 

But with such love as holy kirke 
Hath freelye said wee may. 

Oh give consent shee may be mine, 

And bless a faithfull paire: 

My lands and livings are not small, 

My house and lineage faire: 




LEGENDARY AND BALLAD POETRY. 


389 


My mother she was an earl’s daughter, 
And a noble knyght my sire—” 

The baron he frown’d and turn’d away 
With mickle dole and ire. 

Faire Emmeline sigh’d, faire Emmeline 
wept, 

And did all tremblinge stand: 

At lengthe she sprang upon her knee, 

And held his lifted hand. 

Pardon, my lorde and father deare, 

This fair yong knyght and mee: 

Trust me, but for the carlish knyght, 

I never had fled from thee. 

Oft have you call’d your Emmeline 
Your darling and your joye; 

Oh let not then your harsh resolves 
Your Emmeline destroye. 

The baron he stroakt his dark-brown 
cheeke, 

And turn’d his lieade asyde 
To whipe awaye the starting teare 
He proudly strave to hyde. 

In deepe revolving thought he stoode, 

And mused a little space: 

Then raised faire Emmeline from the 
grounde 

With many a fond embrace. 

Here take her, Child of Elle, he sayd, 

And gave her lillve white hand ; 

Here take my deare and only child, 

And with her half my land: 

Thy father once mine honour wrongde 
In dayes of youthful pride; 

Do thou the injurye repayre 
In fondnesse for thy bride. 

And as thou love her, and hold her deare, 
Heaven prosper thee and thine: 

And nowe my blessing wend wi’ thee, 

My lovelye Emmeline. 

Author Unknown. 

IIart-leap Well. 

The Knight had ridden down from Wens- 
ley Moor 

With the slow motion of a summer’s 
cloud; 


He turned aside toward a Vassal’s door, 

And “ Bring another horse!” he cried 
aloud. 

“ Another horse!”—That shout the Vassal 
heard, 

And saddled his best steed, a comely 
gray; 

Sir Walter mounted him; he was the 
third 

Which he had mounted on that glorious 
day. 

Joy sparkled in the prancing Courser’s 
eyes; 

The horse and horseman are a happy 
pair; 

But, though Sir Walter like a falcon 
flies, 

There is a doleful silence in the air. 

A rout this morning left Sir Walter’s 
Hall, 

That as they gallop’d made the echoes 
roar; 

But horse and man are vanish’d, one and 
all; 

Such race, I think, was never seen be¬ 
fore. 

Sir Walter, restless as a veering wind, 

Calls to the few 7 tired dogs that yet re¬ 
main : 

Blanch, Swift, and Music, noblest of their 
kind, 

Follow, and up the weary mountain 
strain. 

The knight halloo’d, he cheer’d and chid 
them on 

With suppliant gestures and upbraiding 
stern; 

But breath and eyesight fail; and, one by 
one, 

The dogs are stretch’d among the moun¬ 
tain-fern. 

Where is the throng, the tumult of the 

race? 

The bugles that so joyfully were blown? 

This chase it looks not like an earthly 
chase; 

Sir Walter and the Hart are left alone. 




FIRESIDE ENCYCLOPAEDIA OF POETRY. 


o90 


The poor Hart toils along the mountain¬ 
side; 

I will not stop to tell how far he fled, 

Nor will I mention by what death he 
died: 

But now the Knight beholds him lying 
dead. 

Dismounting, then, he lean’d against a 
thorn, 

He had no follower, Dog, nor Man, nor 
Boy: 

He neither crack’d his whip, nor blew his 
horn, 

But gazed upon the spoil with silent joy. 

Close to the thorn on which Sir Walter 
lean’d, 

Stood his dumb partner in this glorious 
feat; 

Weak as a lamb the hour that it is yean’d, 

And white with foam as if with cleaving 
sleet. 

Upon his side the Hart was lying stretch’d: 

His nostril touch’d a spring beneath a 
hill, 

And with the last deep groan his breath 
had fetch’d 

The waters of the spring were trembling 
still. 

And now, too happy for repose or rest 

(Never had living man such joyful lot!), 

Sir Walter walk’d all round, north, south, 
and west, 

And gazed and gazed upon that darling 
spot. 

And climbing up the hill (it was at least 

Nine roods of sheer ascent), Sir Walter 
found 

Three several hoof-marks which the hunted 
beast 

Had left imprinted on the grassy ground. 

Sir Walter wiped his face, and cried, “ Till 
now 

Such sight was never seen by living 
eyes: 

Three leaps have borne him from this lofty 
brow 

Down to the very fountain where he lies. 


I’ll build a Pleasure-house upon this spot, 

And a small Arbor, made for rural joy; 

’Twill be the Traveller’s shed, the Pilgrim’s 
cot, 

A place of love for Damsels that are coy 

I A cunning Artist will I have to frame 

A basin for that fountain in the dell! 

; And they who do make mention of the 
same 

From this day forth shall call it Hart- 
leap Well. 

And, gallant Stag! to make thv praises 
known, 

Another monument shall here be raised; 

Three several Pillars, each a rough-hewn 
Stone, 

And planted where thy hoofs the turf 
have grazed. 

And, in the summer-time when days are 
long, 

I will come hither with my Paramour; 

And with the Dancers and the Minstrel’s 
song 

We will make merry in that pleasant 
Bower. 

| Till the foundations of the mountains fail 

My Mansion with its Arbor shall en¬ 
dure ;— 

The joy of them who till the fields of 
Swale, 

And them who dwell among the woods 
of Ure!” 

Then home he went, and left the Hart, 
stone-dead, 

With breathless nostrils stretch’d above 
the spring. 

—Soon did the Knight perform what he 
had said, 

And far and wide the fame thereof did 
ring. 

Ere thrice the Moon into her port had 
steer’d, 

A Cup of stone received the living 
Well; 

Three Pillars of rude stone Sir Walter 
rear’d, 

And built a house of Pleasure in the 
dell. 








LEGENDARY AND BALLAD POETRY. 


391 


And near the fountain, flowers of stature 
tall 

With trailing plants and trees were in¬ 
tertwined,— 

Which soon composed a little sylvan Hall, 
A leafy shelter from the sun and wind. 

And thither, when the summer-days were 
long, 

Sir Walter led his wondering Paramour; 

And with the Dancers and the Minstrel’s 
song 

Made merriment within that pleasant 
Bower. 

rhe Knight, Sir Walter, died in course 
of time, 

And his bones lie in his paternal vale.— 

But there is matter for a second rhyme, 
And I to this would add another tale. 

Part Second. 

The moving accident is not my trade, 

To freeze the blood I have no ready arts; 

’Tis my delight, alone in summer shade, 
To pipe a simple song for thinking 
hearts. 

As 1 from Hawes to Richmond did repair, 
It chanced that I saw standing in a dell 

Three Aspens at three corners of a square, 
And one, not four yards distant, near a 
Well. 

What this imported 1 could ill divine, 
And, pulling now the rein my horse to 
stop, 

I saw three Pillars standing in a line, 

The last Stone Pillar on a dark hill-top. 

The trees were gray, with neither arms nor 
head, 

Half wasted the square Mound of tawny 
green, 

So that you just might say, as then I said, 
“ Here in old time the hand of man 
hath been.” 

1 look’d upon the hill both far and near ; 
More doleful place did never eye survey; 

It seem’d as if the spring-time came not 
here, 

And Nature here were willing to de¬ 
cay. 


I stood in various thoughts and fancies 
lost, 

When one, who was in Shepherd’s garb 
attired, 

Came up the Hollow; him did I accost, 

And what this place might be I then in¬ 
quired. 

The Shepherd stopp’d, and that same story 
told 

Which in my former rhyme I have re¬ 
hearsed. 

“ X jolly place,” said he, “ in times of 
old, 

But something ails it now; the spot is 
curst. 

You see these lifeless Stumps of aspen 
wood,— 

Some say that they are beeches, others 
elms,— 

These were the Bower, and here a Mansion 
stood, 

The finest palace of a hundred realms. 

The Arbor does its own condition tell; 

You see the Stones, the Fountain, and 
the Stream, 

But as to the great Lodge, you might as 
well 

Hunt half a day for a forgotten dream. 

There’s neither dog nor heifer, horse nor 
sheep, 

Will wet his lips within that Cup of 
stone, 

And oftentimes, when all are fast asleep, 

This water doth send forth a dolorous 
groan. 

Some say that here a murder has been 
done, 

And blood cries out for blood; but for 
my part, 

I’ve guess’d, when I’ve been sitting in the 
sun, 

That it was all for that unhappy Hart. 

What thoughts must through the Crea¬ 
ture’s brain have pass’d! 

Even from the topmost Stone upon the 
Steep 

Are but three bounds; and look, sir, at 
this last;— 

Oh, Master! it has been a cruel leap! 






392 


FIRESIDE ENCYCLOPAEDIA OF POETRY. 


For thirteen hours he ran a desperate 
race, 

And in my simple mind we cannot tell 

What cause the Hart might have to love 
this place, 

And come and make his deathbed near 
the Well. 

Here on the grass perhaps asleep he sank, 

Lull’d by the Fountain in the summer- 
tide ; 

This water was perhaps the first he drank 

When he had wander’d from his moth¬ 
er’s side. 

In April here beneath the scented thorn 

He heard the birds their morning carols 
sing, 

And he, perhaps, for aught we know, was 
born 

Not half a furlong from that selfsame 
spring. 

Now, here is neither grass nor pleasant 
shade, 

The sun on drearier Hollow never shone; 

So will it be, as I have often said, 

Till Trees, and Stones, and Fountain, all 
are gone.” 

“ Gray-headed Shepherd, thou hast spoken 
well; 

Small difference lies between thy creed 
and mine; 

This Beast not unobserved by Nature fell: 

His death was mourn’d by sympathy di¬ 
vine. 

The Being, that is in the clouds and air, 

That is in the green leaves among the 
groves, 

Maintains a deep and reverential care 

For the unoffending creatures whom He 
loves. 

The Pleasure-house is dust,—behind, be¬ 
fore, 

This is no common waste, no common 
gloom, 

But Nature, in due course of time, once 
more 

Shall here put on her beauty and her 
bloom. 


She leaves these objects to a slow decay, 
That what we are, and have been, may 
be known; 

But at the coming of the milder day 
These monuments shall all be overgrown. 

One lesson, Shepherd, let us two divide, 
Taught both by what she shows, and 
what conceals, 

Never to blend our pleasure or our pride 
With sorrow of the meanest thing that 
feels.” 

William Wordsworth. 

Robin Hood and Allen-a-D ale. 

Come listen to me, you gallants sc free, 
All you that love mirth for to hear. 

And I will tell you of a bold outliiw, 

That lived in Nottinghamshire. 

As Robin Hood in the forest stood, 

All under the greenwood tree, 

There he was aware of a brave young man. 
As fine as fine might be. 

The youngster was clad in scarlet red, 

In scarlet fine and gay; 

And he did frisk it over the plain, 

And chaunted a roundelay. 

As Robin Hood next morning stood 
Amongst the leaves so gay, 

There did he espy the same young man 
Come drooping along the way. 

The scarlet he wore the day before 
It was clean cast away; 

And at every step he fetch’d a sigh, 

“ Alas ! and a-well-a-day !” 

Then stepped forth brave Little John, 

And Midge, the miller’s son ; 

Which made the young man bend his bow. 
When as he see them come. 

“Standoff! stand oft'!” the young man said, 
“ W 7 hat is your will with me ?” 

“You must come before our master straight 
Under yon greenwood tree.” 

And when he came bold Robin before, 
Robin ask’d him courteously, 

“ Oh, hast thou any money to spare, 

For my merry men and me?” 




LEGENDARY AND BALLAD POETRY. 


393 


“ I have no money,” the young man said, 

“ But five shillings and a l'ing ; 

And that I have kept this seven long years, 
To have at my wedding. 

“ Yesterday I should have married a maid, 
But she was from me ta’en, 

And chosen to be an old knight’s delight, 
Whereby my poor heart is slain.” 

** What is thy name ?” then said Robin 
Hood, 

“ Come tell me, without any fail.” 

“ By the faith of my body,” then said the 
young man, 

“ My name it is Allen-a-Dale.” 

“ What wilt thou give me,” said Robin 
Hood, 

“ In ready gold or fee, 

To help thee to thy true love again, 

And deliver her unto thee?” 

“ I have no money,” then quoth the young- 
man, 

“ In ready gold nor fee, 

But I will swear upon a book 
Thy true servant for to be.” 

“ How many miles is it to thy true love ? 

Come tell me without guile.” 

“ By the faith of my body,” then said the 
young man, 

“ It is but five little mile.” 

Then Robin he hasted over the plain ; 

He did neither stint nor lin, 

Until he came unto the church 

Where Allen should keep his weddin’. 

“ What hast thou here ?” the bishop then 
said ; 

“ I prithee now tell unto me.” 

“ I am a bold harper,” quoth Robin Hood, 
“ And the best in the north country.” 

u Oh welcome, oh welcome,” the bishop he 
said ; 

“ That music best pleaseth me.” 

“You shall have no music,” said Robin 
Hood, 

“ Till the bride and bridegroom I see.” 

With that came in a wealthy knight, 
Which was both grave and old ; 


And after him a finikin lass, 

Did shine like the glistering gold. 

“ This is not a fit match,” quoth Robin 
Hood, 

“ That you do seem to make here; 

For since we are come into the church, 
The bride shall choose her own dear.” 

Then Robin Hood put his horn to his 
mouth, 

And blew blasts two or three ; 

When four-and-twenty yeomen bold 
Came leaping over the lea. 

And when they came into the churchyard, 
Marching all in a row, 

The first man was Allen-a-Dale, 

To give bold Robin his bow. 

“ This is thy true love,” Robin he said, 

“ Young Allen, as I hear say ; 

And you shall be married this same time, 
Before we depart away.” 

“ That shall not be,” the bishop he cried, 

“ For thy word shall not stand ; 

They shall be three times ask’d in the 
church, 

As the law is of our land.” 

Robin Hood pull’d off the bishop’s coat, 
And put it upon Little John ; 

“ By the faith of my body,” then Robin 
said, 

“ This cloth doth make thee a man.” 

When Little John went into the quire, 
The people began to laugh ; 

He ask’d them seven times into church, 
Lest three times should not be enough. 

“ Who gives me this maid ?” said Little 
John, 

Quoth Robin Hood, “ That do I; 

And he that takes her from Allen-a-Dale, 
Full dearly he shall her buy.” 

And then having ended this merry wed¬ 
ding, 

The bride look’d like a queen ; 

And so they return’d to the merry green 
wood, 

Amongst the leaves so green. 

Author Unknown. 







31*4 


FIRESIDE ENCYCLOPAEDIA OF POETRY. 


BETH GELERT; OP. TUT. GRAVE 
OF THE GREYHOUSD. 

The Spearmen heard the bugle sound, 
And cheerily smiled the morn, 

And many a brack and many a hound 
Obey’d Llewelyn’s horn. 

And still he blew a louder blast, 

And gave a lustier cheer : 

“ Come, Gelert, come, wert never last 
Llewelyn’s horn to hear. 

“ Oh ! where does faithful Gelert roam, 
The flow’r of all his race ? 

So true, so brave; a lamb at home, 

A lion in the chase !” 

5 Twas only at Llewelyn’s board 
The faithful Gelert fed ; 

He watch’d, he serv’d, he cheer’d his lord, 
And sentinell’d his bed. 

In sooth he was a peerless hound, 

The gift of royal John ; 

But now no Gelert could be found, 

And all the chase rode on. 

And now, as o’er the rocks and dells 
The gallant chidings rise, 

All Snowdon’s craggy chaos yells 
The many-mingled cries! 

That day Llewelyn little loved 
The chase of Hart or Hare, 

And scant and small the booty proved, 
For Gelert was not there. 

Unpleased, Llewelyn homeward hied : 
When, near the portal seat, 

His truant Gelert he espied 
Bounding his lord to greet. 

But, when he gained his castle door, 
Aghast the chieftain stood : 

The hound all o’er was smear’d with gore, 
His lips, his fangs, ran blood. 

Llewelyn gazed with tierce surprise : 
Unused such looks to meet, 

His fav’rite check’d his joyful guise, 

And crouch’d and lick’d his feet. 

Onward in haste Llewelyn pass’d, 

And on went Gelert too, 


I And still, where’er his eyes he cast, 

Fresh blood-gouts shock’d his view. 

O’erturn’d his infant’s bed he found, 

With blood-stain’d covert rent ; 

And all around, the walls and ground 
With recent blood besprent. 

He call’d his child, no voice replied; 

He search’d with terror wild ; 

Blood, blood he found on ev’ry side ; 

But nowhere found his child. 

“ Hell-hound! my child by thee’s de¬ 
vour’d !” 

The frantic father cried ; 

And to the hilt his vengeful sword 
He plunged in Gelert’s side. 

His suppliant looks as prone he fell, 

No pity could impart; 

But still his Gelert’s dying yell 
Pass’d heavy o’er his heart. 

Aroused by Gelert’s dying yell 
Some slumb’rer waken’d nigh : 

What words the parent’s joyxould tell 
To hear his infant’s cry ! 

Conceal’d beneath a tumbled heap 
His hurried search had miss’d, 

All glowing from his rosy sleep, 

The cherub boy he kiss’d. 

Nor scath had he, nor harm, nor dread: 

But the same couch beneath 
Lay a gaunt wolf, all torn and dead, 
Tremendous still in death. 

Ah, what was then Llewelyn’s pain! 

For now the truth was clear ; 

His gallant hound the wolf had slain, 

To save Llewelyn’s heir. 

I Vain, vain was all Llewelyn’s woe : 

“ Best of thy kind, adieu ! 

: The frantic blow, which laid thee low, 
This heart shall ever rue.” 

And now a gallant tomb they raise, 

With costly sculpture deckt; 

And marbles, storied with his praise, 

Poor Gelert’s bones protect. 

There never could the spearman pass, 

Or forester, unmoved ; 









LEGENDARY AND BALLAD POETRY. 


395 


There oft the tear-besprinkled grass 
Llewelyn’s sorrow proved. 

And there he hung his sword and spear, 
And there as evening fell, 

In Fancy’s ear he oft would hear 
Poor Gelert’s dying yell. 

And till great Snowdon’s rocks grow old, 
And cease the storm to brave, 

The consecrated spot shall hold 
The name of “ Gelert’s Grave.” 

William Robert Spencer. 


A'.l THARINE JA NFA RIE. 

There was a may, and a weel-fared may, 
Lived high up in yon glen : 

Her name was Katharine Janfarie, 

She was courted by mony men. 

Doun cam’ the Laird o’ Lamingtou, 

Doun frae the South Countrie ; 

And he is for this bonnie lass, 

Her bridegroom for to be. 

He ask’d no her father and mither, 

Nor the chief o’ a’ her kin ; 

But he whisper’d the bonny lass hersel’, 
And did her favor win. 

Doun cam’ an English gentleman, 

Doun frae the English border; 

He is for this bonny lass, 

To keep his house in order. 

He ask’d her father and mither, 

And a’ the lave o’ her kin ; 

But he never ask’d the lassie hersel’ 

Till on her wedding-e’en. 

But she has wrote a long letter, 

And seal’d it with her hand ; 

And sent it away to Lamington, 

To let him understand. 

The first line o’ the letter he read, 

He was baith fain and glad ; 

But or he has read the letter o’er, 

He’s turn’d baith wan ao^ sad. 


Then he has sent a messenger, 

To run through all his land; 

And four and twenty armed men 
Were all at his command. 

But he has left his merry men all, 

Left them on the lee; 

And he’s awa’ to the wedding-house, 

To see what he could see. 

They all rose up to honor him, 

For he was of high renown; 

They all rose up to welcome him, 

And bade him to sit down. 

Oh mickle was the glide red wine 
In silver cups did flow ; 

But aye she drank to Lamington, 

And fain with him would go. 

“ Oh come ye here to fight, young lord? 
Or come ye here to play ? 

Or come ye here to drink gude wine 
Upon the wedding-day ?” 

“ I come na here to fight,” he said, 

“ I come 11 a here to play ; 

I’ll but lead a dance wi’ the bonny bride, 
And mount and go my way.” 

He’s caught her by the milk-white hand, 
And by the grass-green sleeve; 

He’s mounted her hie behind himseT, 
At her kinsfolk spier’d 11 a leave. 

It’s up, it’s up the Couden bank, 

It’s doun the Couden brae ; 

And aye they made the trumpet sound 
“ It’s a’ fair play 1” 

Now, a’ ye lords and gentlemen 
That be of England born, 

Come ye na doun to Scotland thus, 

For fear ye get the scorn! 

They’ll feed ye up wi’ flattering words, 
And play ye foul play ; 

They’ll dress you frogs instead of fish 
Upon your wedding-day! 

Author Unknown. 






896 


FIRESIDE ENCYCLOPAEDIA OF POETRY. 


Fair Annie of Lochroyan. 

“ Oh wha will shoe my fair foot, 

And wha will glove my han’'? 

And wha will lace my middle jimp 
Wi’ a new-made London ban’ ? 

‘‘ Or wha will kernb my yellow hair 
Wi’ a new-made silver kemb? 

Or wha’ll be father to my young bairn, 

Till love Gregor come hame?” 

“ Your father’ll shoe your fair foot, 

Your mother glove your han’; 

Your sister lace your middle jimp 
Wi’ a new-made London ban’; 

“ Your brethren will kemb your yellow 
hair 

Wi’ a new-made silver kemb; 

And the King o’ heaven will father your 
bairn, 

Till love Gregor come hame.” 

“ Oh gin I had a bonny ship, 

And men to sail wi’ me, 

It’s I would gang to my true love, 

Sin he winna come to me!” 

Her father’s gien her a bonny ship, 

And sent her to the stran’; 

She’s ta’en her young son in her arms, 
And turn’d her back to the lan’. 

She hadna been o’ the sea sailin’ 

About a month or more, 

Till landed has she her bonny ship 
Near her true love’s door. 

The nicht was dark, and the wind blew 
cald, 

And her love was fast asleep, 

And the bairn that was in her twa arms 
Fu’ sail- began to greet. 

Lang stood she at her true love’s door, 
And lang tirl’d at the pin ; 

At length up gat his fause mother, 

Says, “ Wha’s that wad he in ?” 

“Oh it is Annie of Lochroyan, 

Your love, come o’er the sea, 

But and your young son in her arms ; 

So open the door to me.” 


“Awa’. awa’, ye ill woman ! 

You’re nae come here for gude; 

I You’re but a witch, or a vile warlock, 

Or mermaid o’ the flude.” 

“ I’m nae a witch or vile warlock, 

Or mermaiden,” said she ;— 

“ I’m but your Annie of Lochroyan 
Oh open the door to me !” 

“Oh gin ye be Annie of Lochroyan, 

As I trust not ye be, 

What taiken can ye gie that e’er 
I kept your companie?” 

“ Oh dinna ye mind, love Gregor,” she 
says, 

“ Whan we sat at the wine, 

How we changed the napkins frae our 
necks ? 

It’s nae sae lang sinsyne. 

“ And yours was gude, and gude enough, 
But nae sae gude as mine ; 

For yours was o’ the cambric clear, 

But mine o’ the silk sae fine. 

“ And dinna ye mind, love Gregor,” she 
says, 

“ As we twa sat at dine, 

How we changed the rings frae our fingers, 
And I can shew thee thine : 

“ And yours was gude, and gude enough, 
Yet nae sae gude as mine ; 

For yours was o’ the gude red gold, 

But mine o’ the diamonds fine. 

“ Sae open the door, now, love Gregor, 
And open it wi’ speed ; 

Or your young son, that is in my arms, 
For cald will soon be dead.” 

“ Awa’, awa’, ye ill woman ! 

Gae frae my door for shame; 

For I liae gotten anither fair love— 

Sae ye may hie you hame.” 

“ Oh hae ye gotten anither fair love, 

For a’ the oaths ye sware? 

Then fare ye weel, now, fause Gregor: 

For me ye’s never see mair!” 

Oh hooly, hooly gaed she back, 

As the day began to peep; 









LEGENDARY AND BALLAD POETRY. 


Jiff 


She set her foot on good shipboard, 

And sair, sair did she weep. 

“ Tak down, tak down the mast o’ goud; 

Set up the mast o’ tree; 

Ill sets it a forsaken lady 
To sail sae gallantlie. 

“Tak down, tak down, the sails o’ silk : 

Set up the sails o’ skin ; 

Ill sets the outside to be gay, 

Whan there’s sic grief within !” 

Love Gregor started frae his sleep, 

And to his mother did say: 

“ I dreamt a dream this night, mither, 
That maks my heart richt wae; 

“ I dreamt that Annie of Lochrovan, 

The flower o’ a’ her kin, 

Was standin’ mournin’ at my door; 

Hut nane wad lat her in.” 

“ Oh there was a woman stood at the door, 
Wi’ a bairn intill her arms; 

Hut I wadna let her within the bower, 

For fear she had done you harm.” 

Ob quickly, quickly raise he up, 

And fast ran to the strand; 

And there he saw her, fair Annie, 

Was sailing frae the land. 

And “ Heigh, Annie!” and “ How, Annie ! 

O Annie, winna ye bide?” 

Hut aye the louder that he cried “ Annie,” 
The higher rair’d the tide. 

And “ Heigh, Annie!” and “How, Annie! 

O Annie, speak to me I” 

Hut aye the louder that he cried “ Annie,” 
The louder rair’d the sea. • 

The wind grew loud, and the sea grew 
rough, 

And the ship was rent in twain ; 

And soon he saw her, fair Annie, 

Come floating o’er the main. 

He saw his young son in her arms, 

Baith toss’d aboon the tide ; 

He wrang his hands, and fast he ran, 

And plunged in the sea sae wide. 

He catch’d her by the yellow hair, 

And drew her to the strand; 


But eald and stiff was every limb, 

Before he reach’d the land. 

Oh first he kist her cherry cheek, 

And syne he kist her chin : 

And sair he kist her ruby lips, 

But there was nae breath within. 

Oh he has mourn’d o’er fair Annie, 

Till the sun was ganging down ; 

Syne wi’ a sich his heart it brast, 

And his saul to heaven has flown. 

Authok Unknown. 


How We Beat the Favorite. 

(A Lay of the Loamshire Hunt-cup. ) 

“Aye, squire,” said Stevens, “they back 
him at evens; 

The race is all over, bar shouting, they 
say; 

The Clown ought to beat her; Dick 
Neville is sweeter 

Than ever—he swears he can win all the 
way. 

“A gentleman rider—well, I’m an out¬ 
sider, 

But if lie’s a gent, who the mischiefs a 
jock? 

You swells mostly blunder, Dick rides for 
the plunder, 

He rides, too, like thunder—he sits like 
a rock. 

“ He calls ‘ hunted fairly ’ a horse that has 
barely 

Been stripped for a trot within sight of 
the hounds, 

A horse that at Warwick beat Birdlime 
and Yorick, 

And gave Abdelkader at Aintree nine 
pounds. 

“ They say we have no test to warrant a 
protest; 

Dick rides for a lord and stands in with 
a steward; 

The light of their faces they show him— 
his case is 

Prejudged and his verdict already se¬ 
cured. 







FIRESIDE EX CYCLOPAEDIA OF POETRY. 


>98 


“ But none can outlast her, and few travel 
faster, 

She strides in her work clean away from 
The Drag; 

You hold her and sit her, she couldn’t be 
fitter, 

Whenever you hit her she’ll spring like 
a stag. 

“ And p’r’aps the green jacket, at odds 
though they back it, 

May fall, or ther’s no knowing what may 
turn up. 

The mare is quite ready, si I still and ride 
steady, 

Keep cool; and I think you may just 
win the cup.” 

Dark-brown with tan muzzle, fust stripped 
for the tussle, 

Stood Iseult, arching her neck to the 
curb, 

A lean head and fiery, strong quarters and 
wiry, 

A loin rather light, but a shoulder 
superb. 

Some parting injunction, bestowed with 
great unction, 

T tried to recall, but forgot like a dunce, 

When Reginald Murray, full tilt on White 
Surrey, 

Came down in a hurry to start us at 
once. 

“ Keep back in the yellow! Come up on 
Othello! 

Hold hard on the chestnut! Turn round 
on The Drag! 

Keep back there on Spartan ! Back you, 
sir, in tartan ! 

So, steady there, easy,” and down went 
the flag. 

We started, and Kerr made strong running 
on Mermaid, 

Through furrows that led to the first 
stake-and-bound, 

The crack, half extended, looked blood¬ 
like and splendid, 

Held wide on the right where the head¬ 
land was sound. 


I pulled hard to baffle her rush with the 
snaffle, 

Before her two-thirds of the field got 
away, 

All through the wet pasture where floods 
of the last year 

Still loitered, they clotted my crimson 
with clay. 

The fourth fence, a wattle, floored Monk 
and Blue-bottle; 

The Drag came to grief at the black¬ 
thorn and ditch. 

The rails toppled over Redoubt and Red 
Rover, 

The lane stopped Lycurgus and Leices¬ 
tershire Witch. 

She passed like an arrow Kildare and Cock- 
Sparrow, 

And Mantrap and Mermaid refused the 
stone wall; 

Ami Giles on The Greyling came down at 
the paling, 

And T was left sailing in front of them 
all. 

I took them a burster, nor eased her nor 
nursed her 

Until the Black Bullfinch led into the 
plough, 

And through the strong bramble we bore 
with a scramble— 

My cap was knocked off by the hazel- 
tree bough. 

Where furrows looked lighter T drew the 
rein tighter! 

Her dark chest all dappled with flakes 
of white foam, * 

Her flanks mud-bespattered, a weak rail 
she shattered: 

We landed on turf with our heads turned 
for home. 

Then crashed a low binder, and then close 
behind her 

The sward to the strokes of the favorite 
shook; 

His rush roused her mettle, yet ever so 
little 

She shortened her stride as we raced at 
the brook. 







LEGENDARY AND BALLAD POETRY. 


391» 


8he rose when I hit her. I saw the stream { 
glitter, 

A wide scarlet nostril flashed close to 
my knee, 

I let ween sky and water The Clown came 
and caught her— 

The space that lie cleared was a caution 
to see. 

And forcing the running, discarding all 
cunning, 

A length to the front went the rider in 
green; 

A long strip of stubble, and then the big 
double, 

Two stiff flights of rails with a quickset 
between. 

She raced at the rasper, T felt my knees 
grasp her, 

T found my hands give to her strain on 
the bit, 

She rose when The Clown did—our silks as 
we bounded 

Brushed lightly, our stirrups clashed 
loud as we lit. 

A rise steeply sloping, a fence with stone 
coping— 

The last—we diverged round the base of 
the hill; 

ITis path was the nearer, his leap was the 
clearer, 

I flogged up the straight, and he led sit¬ 
ting still. 

She came to his quarter, and on still I 
- brought her, 

And up to his girth, to his breast-plate 
she drew; 

A short prayer from Neville just reached 
me—“ The Devil,” 

He muttered—locked level the hurdles 
we flew. 

A hum of hoarse cheering, a dense crowd 
careering, 

All sights seen obscurely, all shouts 
vaguely heard; 

“ The green wins!” “ The crimson !” The 
multitude swims on, 

And figures are blended and features are 
blurred. 


The horse is her master!” “The green 
forges past her!” 

“The Clown will outlast her!” “The 
< flown wins!” “ The Clown !” 

The white railing races with all the white 
faces, 

The chestnut outpaces, outstretches the 
brown. 

On still past the gateway she strains in the 
straightway, 

Still struggles, “The Clown by a short 
neck at most,” 

He swerves, the green scourges, the stand 
rocks and surges, 

And flashes, and verges, and flits the 
white post. 

Ay! so ends the tussle—I knew the tan 
muzzle 

Was first, though the ring-men were 
yelling “ Dead heat!” 

A nose I could swear by, but Clarke said 
“ The mare by 

A short head.” And that’s how the 
favorite was beat. 

Adam Lindsay Gordon. 

Driving Home tije Cows. 

Out of the clover and blue-eyed grass 
He turned them into the river-lane; 

One after another he let them pass, 

Then fastened the meadow-bars again. 

Under the willows, and over the hill, 

He patiently followed their sober pace ; 

The merry whistle for once was still, 

And something shadowed the sunny face. 

Only a boy ! and his father had said 
lie never could let his youngest go; 

Two already were lying dead 

Under the feet of the trampling foe. 

But after the evening work was done, 

And the frogs were loud in the meadow 
swamp, 

Over his shoulder he slung his gun 

And stealthily followed the foot-path 
damp. 

Across the clover, and through the wheat, 
With resolute heart and purpose grim 







FIRESIDE ENCYCLOPAEDIA OF POETRY. 


400 

Though cold was the dew on his hurrying 
feet 

And the blind bat’s flitting startled him. 

Thrice since then had the lanes been 
white, 

And the orchards sweet with apple- 
bloom ; 

And now, when the cows came back at 
night, 

The feeble father drove them home. 

For news had come to the lonely farm 
That three were lying where two had 
lain ; 

And the old man’s tremulous, palsied arm 
Could never lean on a son’s again. 

The summer day grew cool and late ; 

He went for the cows when the work 
was done; 

But down the lane, as he opened the gate, 
He saw them coming one by one: 

Brindle, Ebony, Speckle, and Bess, 
Shaking their horns in the evening wind; 
Cropping the buttercups out of the grass— 
But who was it following close behind? 

Loosely swung in the idle air 
The empty sleeve of army blue ; 

And worn and pale, from the crisping hair, 
Looked out a face that the father knew. 

For Southern prisons will sometimes yawn, 
And yield their dead unto life again ; 
And the day that comes with a cloudy 
dawn 

In golden glory at last may wane. 

The great tears sprang to their meeting 
eyes; 

For the heart must speak when the lips 
are dumb: 

And under the silent evening skies 
Together they followed the cattle home. 

Kate Putnam Osgood. 

The Prisoner of Chill on. 

Eternal Spirit of the chainless Mind ! 
Brightest in dungeons, Liberty, thou art, 
For there thy habitation is the heart— 
The heart which love of thee alone can 
bind; 


And when thy sons to fetters are con¬ 
sign’d— 

To fetters, and the damp vault’s dayless 
gloom— 

Their country conquers with their mar¬ 
tyrdom, 

And freedom’s fame finds wings on even- 
wind. 

Chi lion! thy prison is a holy place, 

And thy sad floor an altar—-for ’twas 
trod 

Until his very steps have left a trace, 
Worn as if thy cold pavement were a sod, 
By Bonnivard!—May none those marks 
efface! 

For they appeal from tyranny to God. 

i. 

My hair is gray, but not with years, 

Nor grew it white 
In a single night, 

As men’s have grown from sudden fears; 
My limbs are bow’d, though not with toil, 
But rusted with a vile repose; 

For they have been a dungeon’s spoil, 

And mine has been the fate of those 
To whom the goodly earth and air 
Are bann’d and barr’d—forbidden fare. 

But this was for my father’s faith 
I suffer’d chains and courted death. 

That father perish’d at the stake 
For tenets he would not forsake ; 

And for the same his lineal race 
In darkness found a dwelling-place. 

We were seven, who now are one— 

Six in youth, and one in age, 

Finish’d as they had begun, 

Proud of Persecution’s rage ; 

One in fire, and two in field, 

Their belief with blood have seal’d: 

Dying, as their father died, 

For the God their foes denied. 

Three were in a dungeon cast, 

Of whom this wreck is left the last. 

II. 

There are seven pillars, of Gothic mould, 
In Chillon’s dungeons deep and old ; 

There are seven columns, massy and gray, 
Dim with a dull imprison’d ray, 

A sunbeam which hath lost its way. 





LEGENDARY AND BALLAD POETRY. 


401 


And through the crevice and the cleft 
Of the thick wall is fallen and left; 
Creeping o’er the floor so damp, 

Like a marsh’s meteor lamp : 

And in each pillar there is a ring, 

And in each ring there is a chain ; 
That iron is a cankering thing, 

For in these limbs its teeth remain, 
With marks that will not wear away 
Till I have done with this new day, 
Which now is painful to these eyes, 
Which have not seen the sun so rise 
For years—I cannot count them o’er ; 

I lost their long and heavy score 
When my last brother droop’d and died, 
And I lay living by his side. 

ill. 

They chain’d us each to a column stone 
And we were three—yet each alone. 

We could not move a single pace ; 

We could not see each other’s face, 

But with that pale and livid light 
That made us strangers in our sight; 
And thus together, yet apart— 

Fetter’d in hand, but join’d in heart; 
’Twas still some solace, in the dearth 
Of the pure elements of earth, 

To hearken to each other’s speech, 

And each turn comforter to each 
With some new hope, or legend old, 

Or song heroically bold ; 

But even these at length grew cold. 

Our voices took a dreary tone, 

An echo of the dungeon-stone, 

A grating sound—not full and free, 

As they of yore were wont to be; 

It might be fancy—but to me 
They never sounded like our own. 

IV. 

I was the eldest of the three ; 

And to uphold and cheer the rest 
I ought to do, and did, my best— 

And each did well in his degree. 

The youngest, whom my father loved, 
Because our mother’s brow was given 
To him—with eyes as blue as heaven— 
For him my soul was sorely moved; 
And truly might it be distress’d 
To see such bird in such a nest; 

For he was beautiful as day 
2 fi 


(When day was beautiful to me 
As to young eagles, being free), 

A polar day, which will not see 
A sunset till its summer’s gone, 

Its sleepless summer of long light, 

The snow-clad offspring of the sun : 

And thus he was as pure and bright, 

| And in his natural spirit gay, 

With tears for naught but other’s ills; 

And then they flow’d like mountain-rills. 
Unless he could assuage the woe 
Which he abhorr’d to view below. 

v. 

The other was as pure of mind, 

But form’d to combat with his kind; 
Strong in his frame, and of a mood 
Which ’gainst the world in war had 
stood, 

And perish’d in the foremost rank 
With joy; but not in chains to pine. 
His spirit wither’d with their clank ; 

I saw it silently decline— 

And so, perchance, in sooth, did mine: 
But yet I forced it on to cheer 
Those relics of a home so dear. 

He was a hunter of the hills, 

Had follow’d there the deer and wolf; 
To whom this dungeon was a gulf, 

And fetter’d feet the worst of ills. 

VI. 

Lake Leman lies by Chillon’s w r alls. 

| A thousand feet in depth below, 

Its massy waters meet and flow ; 

Thus much the fathom-line was sent 
From Chillon’s snow-white battlement, 
Which round about the wave enthralls; 
A double dungeon wall and wave 
Have made—and like a living grave, 
Below the surface of the lake 
The dark vault lies wherein we lay; 

We heard it ripple night and day; 

Sounding o’er our heads it knock’d; 

And I have felt the winter’s spray 
Wash through the bars when winds w r ere 
high, 

And wanton in the happy sky; 

And then the very rock hath rocked, 
And I have felt it shake, unshock’d, 
Because I could have smiled to see 
The death that would have set me free. 








402 


FIRESIDE ENCYCLOPAEDIA OF POETRY. 


vn. 

I said my nearer brother pined; 

I said his mighty heart declined. 

He loathed and put away his food ; 

It was not that ’twas coarse and rude, 

For we were used to hunter’s fare, 

And for the like had little care. 

The milk drawn from the mountain-goat 
Was changed for water from the moat; 
Our bread was such as captives’ tears 
Have moisten’d many a thousand years, 
Since man first pent his fellow-men, 

Like brutes, within an iron den. 

But what were these to us or him ? 

These wasted not his heart or limb ; 

My brother’s soul was of that mould 
Which in a palace had grown cold, 

Had his free breathing been denied 
The range of the steep mountain’s side. 
But why delay the truth ?—he died. 

I saw, and could not hold his head, 

Nor reach his dying hand—nor dead, 
Though hard I strove, but strove in vain, 
To rend and gnash my bonds in twain. 
He died—and they unlock’d his chain, 
And scoop’d for him a shallow grave 
Even from the cold earth of our cave. 

I begg’d them, as a boon, to lay 
His corse in dust whereon the day 
Might shine—it was a foolish thought; 
But then within my brain it wrought, 
That even in death his freeborn breast 
In such a dungeon could not rest. 

.1 might have spared my idle prayer— 
They coldly laugh’d, and laid him there, 
The flat and turfless earth above 
The being we so much did love; 

His empty chain above it leant— 

Such murder’s fitting monument! 

VIII. 

But he, the favorite and the flower, 

Most cherish’d since his natal hour, 

His mother’s image in fair face, 

The infant love of all his race, 

His martyr’d father’s dearest thought, 
My latest care—for whom I sought 
To hoard my life, that his might be 
Less wretched now, and one day free— 
He, too, who yet had held untired 
A spirit natural or inspired— 


| He, too, was struck, and day by day 
Was wither’d on the stalk away. 

O God ! it is a fearful thing 
To see the human soul take wing 
In anv shape, in any mood : 

I’ve seen it rushing forth in blood ; 

! I’ve seen it on the breaking ocean 
| Strive with a swoln, convulsive mo¬ 
tion ; 

I’ve seen the sick and ghastly bed 
Of sin, delirious with its dread ; 

But these were horrors—this was woe 
Unmix’d with such—but sure and slow. 
He faded, and so calm and meek, 

So softly worn, so sweetly weak, 

So tearless, yet so tender—kind, 

And grieved for those he left behind ; 
With all the while a cheek whose bloom 
Was as a mockery of the tomb, 

Whose tints as gently sunk away 
As a departing rainbow’s ray— 

An eye of most transparent light, 

That almost made the dungeon bright. 
And not a word of murmur, not 
A groan o’er his untimely lot— 

A little talk of better days, 

A little hope my own to raise; 

For I was sunk in silence—lost 
In this last loss, of all the most; 

And then the sighs he would suppress 
Of fainting Nature’s feebleness, 

More slowly drawn, grew less and less. 

I listen’d, but I could not hear— 

; I call’d, for I was wild with fear; 

I knew ’twas hopeless, but my dread 
Would not be thus admonished ; 

I call’d, and thought I heard a sound— 

I burst my chain with one strong bound, 
And rush’d to him : I found him not, 

I only stirr’d in this black spot, 

I only lived—I only drew 
The accursfed breath of dungeon-dew ; 
The last, the sole, the dearest link 
Between me and the eternal brink, 

Which bound me to my failing race, 

Was broken in this fatal place. 

One on the earth and one beneath— 

My brothers—both had ceased to breathe 
I took that hand which lay so still— 
Alas! my own was full as chill; 

I had not strength to stir or strive, 
j But felt that I was still alive— 









LEGENDARY AN1) BALLAD POETRY. 


403 


A frantic feeling, when we know 
That what we love shall ne’er be so. 

I know not why 
1 con Id not die, 

1 had no earthly hope—but faith, 

And that forbade a selfish death. 

ix. 

What next befell me then and there 
I know r not well—I never knew. 

First came the loss of light and air, 

And then of darkness too. 

I had no thought, no feeling—none : 
Among the stones I stood a stone; 

And was, scarce conscious what I wist, 
As shrubless crags within the mist; 

For all was blank, and bleak, and gray; 
It was not night—it was not day ; 

It was not even the dungeon-light, 

So hateful to my heavy sight; 

Hut vacancy absorbing space, 

And fixedness, without a place ; 

There were no stars, no earth, no time, 
No check, no change, no good, no crime; 
But silence, and a stirless breath, 

Which neither was of life nor death ; 

A sea of stagnant idleness, 

Blind, boundless, mute, and motionless! 

x. 

A light broke in upon my brain— 

It was the carol of a bird ; 

It ceased, and then it came again— 

The sweetest song ear ever heard ; 

And mine was thankful till my eyes 
Kan over with the glad surprise, 

And they that moment could not see 
I was the mate of misery ; 

But then by dull degrees came back 
My senses to their wonted track : 

I saw the dungeon walls and floor 
Close slowly round me as before; 

I saw the glimmer of the sun 
Creeping as it before had done; 

But through the crevice where it came 
That bird was perch’d as fond and tame, 
And tamer than upon the tree— 

A lovely bird with azure wings, 

And song that said a thousand things, 
And seem’d to say them all for me! 

I never saw its like before— 

.1 ne’er shall see its likeness more. 


It seem’d, like me, to want a mate, 

But was not half so desolate; 

And it was come to love me when 
None lived to love me so again, 

And, cheering from my dungeon’s brink, 
Had brought me back to feel and think. 

1 know not if it late were free, 

Or broke its cage to perch on mine; 

But knowing well captivity, 

Sweet bird! I could riot wish for thine— 
| Or if it were, in winged guise, 

| A visitant from Paradise; 

For—Heaven forgive that thought! the 
while 

! Which made me both to weep and smile t 
I sometimes deem’d that it might be 
My brother’s soul come down to me; 

But then at last away it flew, 

And then ’twas mortal well I knew; 

For he would never thus have flown, 

And left me twice so doubly lone— 

Lone as the corse within its shroud, 

i Lone as a solitary cloud, 

I 

A single cloud on a sunny day, 

While all the rest of heaven is clear, 

A frown upon the atmosphere, 

That hath no business to appear 

When skies are blue, and earth is gay. 

XI. 

A kind of change came in my fate— 

My keepers grew compassionate. 

I know not what had made them so— 

They were inured to sights of woe; 

But so it was—mv broken chain 
With links unfasten’d did remain; 

And it was liberty to stride 
Along my cell from side to side, 

And up and down, and then athwart, 

And tread it over every part; 

And round the pillars one by one, 
Returning where my walk begun— 
Avoiding only, as I trod, 

My brothers’ graves without a sod ; 

For if 1 thought with heedless tread 
My step profaned their lowly bed, 

My breath came gaspingly and thick, 

And mv crush’d heart fell blind and sick. 

XII. 

T made a footing in the wall: 

It was not therefrom to escape, 









404 


FIRESIDE ESCYCLOPAID1A OF POETRY. 


I 


For I had buried one and all 
Who loved me in a human shape; 

And the whole earth would henceforth be 
A wider prison unto me; 

No child, no sire, no kin had I, 

No partner in my misery. 

T thought of this, and I was glad, 

For thought of them had made me mad; 
But I was curious to ascend 
To my barr’d windows, and to bend 
Once more upon the mountains high 
The quiet of a loving eye. 

XIII. 

I saw them—and they were the same; 
They were not changed, like me, in frame; 
I saw their thousand years of snow 
On high—their wide, long lake below, 

And the blue Rhone in fullest flow; 

I heard the torrents leap and gush 
O’er channell’d rock and broken bush; 

I saw the white-wall’d distant towm. 

And whiter sails go skimming down ; 

And then there was a little isle, 

Which in my very face did smile— 

The only one in view ; 

A small, green isle, it seem’d no more, 
Scarce broader than my dungeon-floor; 

But in it there were three tall trees, 

And o’er it blew the mountain-breeze, 

And by it there were waters flowing, 

And on it there were young flow’rs growing 
Of gentle breath and hue. 

The fish swam by the castle-wall, 

And they seem’d joyous, each and all; 

The eagle rode the rising blast— 
Methought he never flew so fast 
As then to me he seem’d to fly; 

And then new tears came in my eye, 

A nd I felt troubled, and would fain 
I had not left my recent chain; 

And when I did descend again 
The darkness of my dim abode 
Fell on me as a heavy load; 

It was as is a new-dug grave, 

Closing o’er one we sought to save; 

And yet my glance, too much oppress’d, 
Had almost need of such a rest 

XIV. 

It might be months, or years, or days— 

I kept no count, I took no note— 


I had no hope my eyes to raise, 

And clear them of their dreary mote; 
At last men came to set me free, 

I ask’d not why, and reck’d not wtmre; 
It was at length the same to me, 

Fetter’d or fetterless to be; 

I learn’d to love despair. 

And thus, when they appear’d at last, 

And all my bonds aside were cast, 

These heavy walls to me had grown 
A hermitage—and all my own ! 

And half I felt as they were come 
To tear me from a second home. 

With spiders I had friendship made, 

And watch’d them in their sullen trade 
Had seen the mice by moonlight play; 
And why should I feel less than they? 

We were all inmates of one place, 

And I, the monarch of each race, 

Had power to kill; yet, strange to tell! 

In quiet we had learn’d to dwell. 

Mv very chains and I grew friends, 

So much a long communion tends 
To make us what we are :^-even I 
Regain’d my freedom with a sigh. 

Lord Byron. 

Fair Helen. 

I wish I were where Helen lies; 

Night and day on me she cries; 

Oh that I were where Helen lies, 

On fair Kirconnell lea! 

Curst be the heart that thought the thought, 
And curst the hand that fired the shot, 
When in my arms burd Helen dropt, 

And died to succor me! 

Oh think na but my heart was sair, 

When my love dropt down and spak nae 
mair! 

I laid her down wi’ meikle care, 

On fair Kirconnell lea. 

As I went down the water-side, 

None but my foe to be my guide— 

None but my foe to be my guide, 

On fair Kirconnell lea— 

I lighted down my sword to draw; 

I hacked him in pieces sma’— 

I hacked him in pieces sma’, 

For her sake that died for me. 






LEGENDARY AND BALLAD POETRY. 


405 


0 Helen fair, beyond compare, 

I’ll make a garland of thy hair 
Shall bind my heart for evermair, 

Until the day I die! 

Oh that I were where Helen lies ! 

Night and day on me she cries; 

Out of my bed she bids me rise— 

Says, “ Haste and come to me!” 

0 Helen fair! O Helen chaste ! 

If I were with thee I were blest, 

Where thou lies low, and takes thy rest, 
On fair Kirconnell lea. 

I wish my grave were growing green, 

A winding-sheet drawn ower my een, 

And I in Helen’s arms lying, 

On fair Kirconnell lea. 

1 wish I were where Helen lies! 

Night and day on me she cries ; 

Vnd I am weary of the skies, 

Since my love died for me. 

Author Unknown. 

Helen of Kirkconnell. 

1 «vish I were where Helen lies, 

For night and day on me she cries; 

And, like an angel, to the skies 
Still seems to beckon me ! 

For me she lived, for me she sigh’d, 

For me she wish’d to be a bride; 

For me in life’s sweet morn she died 
On fair Kirkconnell-Lee! 

Where Kirtle waters gently wind, 

As Helen on my arm reclined, 

A rival with a ruthless mind 
Took deadly aim at me : 

My love, to disappoint the foe, 

Rush’d in between me and the blow ; 

And now her corse is lying low 
On fair Kirkconnell-Lee! 

Though Heaven forbids my wrath to swell, 
I curse the hand by which she fell— 

The fiend who made my heaven a hell, 
And tore my love from me ! 

For if, where all the graces shine— 

Oh, if on earth there’s aught divine, 

My Helen! all these charms were thine— 
They centred all in thee ! 


Ah, what avails it that, amain, 

I clove the assassin’s head in twain ? 

No peace of mind, my Helen slain, 

No resting-place for me: 

I see her spirit in the air— 

I hear the shriek of wild despair, 

When Murder laid her bosom bare 
On fair Kirkconnell-Lee! 

Oh ! when I’m sleeping in my grave, 

And o’er my head the rank w r eeds wave, 
May He who life and spirit gave 
Unit.e my love and me ! 

Then from this world of doubts and sighs, 
My soul on wings of peace shall rise; 

And, joining Helen in the skies, 

Forget Kirkconnell-Lee! 

John Mayne. 

Rosa belle. 

Oh listen, listen, ladies gay! 

No haughty feat of arms I tell; 

Soft is the note, and sad the lay 
That mourns the lovely Rosabelle. 

“ Moor, moor the barge, ye gallant crew, 
And, gentle lady, deign to stay! 

Rest thee in Castle Ravensheuch, 

Nor tempt the stormy firth to-day. 

“ The blackening wave is edged with 
white; 

To inch and rock the sea-mews fly; 

The fishers have heard the Water-Sprite, 
Whose screams forbode that wreck is 
nigh. 

“ Last night the gifted seer did view 
. A wet shroud swathed round lady gay ; 
Then stay thee, Fair, in Ravensheuch ; 
Why cross the gloomy firth to-day ?” 

“ ’Tis not because Lord Lindesay’s heir 
To-night at Rosliu leads the ball, 

But that my lady-mother there 
Sits lonely in her castle-hall. 

“ ’Tis not because the ring they ride, 

And Lindesay at the ring rides well, 

But that my sire the wine will chide 
If ’tis not fill’d by Rosabelle.” 

—O’er Roslin all that dreary night 
A wondrous blaze was seen to gleam; 




FIRESIDE ENCYCLOPAEDIA OF POETRY. 


duo 


Twas broader than the watch-fire’s light, 
And redder than the bright moonbeam. 

It glared on Roslin’s castled rock, 

It. ruddied all the copse-wood glen ; 
Twas seen from Dryden’s groves of oak, 
And seen from cavern’d Hawthornden. 

Seem’d all on (ire that chapel proud 
Where Roslin’s chiefs uncoffin’d lie, 
Each baron, for a sable shroud, 

Sheath’d in his iron panoply. 

Seem’d all on fire within, around, 

Deep sacristy and altar's pale ; 

Shone every pillar foliage-bound, 

And glimmer’d all the dead men’s mail. 

Blazed battlement and pinnet high, 

Blazed every rose-carved buttress fair— 
So still they blaze, when fate is nigh 
The lordly line of high Saint Clair. 

There are twenty of Roslin’s barons bold 
Lie buried within that proud chapelle; 
Each one the holy vault doth hold, 

But the sea holds lovely Rosabelle! 

And each Saint Clair was buried there 
With candle, with book, and with knell; 
But the sea-caves rung, and the wild winds 
sung 

The dirge of lovely Rosabelle. 

Sir Walter Scott. 

Carqamon. 

His steed was old, his armor worn, 

And he was old and worn and gray ; 
The light that lit his patient eyes, 

It shone from very far away. 

Through gay Provence he journeyed on, 
To one high quest his life was true; 
And so they called him Carfamon— 

The knight who seeketh the world 
through. 

A pansy blossomed on his shield; 

“ A token ’tis,” the people say, 

"That still across the world’s wide field 
He seeks la dame de ses pens6es.” 

For somewhere on a painted wall, 

Or in the city’s shifting crowd, 


Or looking from a casement tall, 

Or shaped of dream or evening cloud— 

Forgotten when, forgotten where— 

Her face had filled his careless eye 
j A moment ere he turned and passed, 

Nor knew it was his destiny. 

But ever in his dreams it came, 

Divine and passionless and strong, 

A smile upon the imperial lips 
No lover’s kiss had dared to wrong. 

He took his armor from the wall— 

Ah ! gone since then was many a day— 

He led his steed from out the stall 
And sought la dame de ses pens&s. 

The ladies of the Troubadours 
Came riding through the chestnut grove: 

“Sir Minstrel, string that lute of yours, 
And sing us a gay song of love.” 

“O ladies of the Troubadours, 

My lute has but a single string; 

Sirventes fit for paramours 
My heart is not in tune to sing. 

“The flower that blooms upon my shield, 
It has another soil and spring 

Than that wherein the gaudy rose 
Of light Provence is blossoming. 

“ The lady of my dreams doth hold 
Such royal state within my mind, 

No thought that comes unclad in gold 
To that high court may entrance find.” 

So through the chestnut groves he passed, 
And through the land and far away; 

Nor know I whether in the world 
He found la dame de ses pensees. 

Only I know that in the South 
Long to the harp his tale was told; 

Sweet as new wine within the mouth 
The small, choice words and music ob 1 

To scorn the promise of the Real; 

To seek and seek and not to find; 

Yet cherish still the fair Ideal,— 

It is thy fate, O restless Mind! 

Henry Augustin Beers. 



Slowly England’s sun was setting o’er the 
hilltops far away, 

Filling all the land with beauty at the close 
of one sad day; 





407 


LEGENDARY AND BALLAD POETRY. 


And the last rays kissed the forehead of 


man and maiden fair, 

He with footsteps slow and weary, she with 
sunny, floating hair; 

He with bowed head, sad and thoughtful, 
she with lips all cold and white, 
Struggling to keep back the murmur, “ Cur¬ 
few must not ring to-night!” 

“ Sexton,” Bessie’s white lips faltered, 
pointing to the prison old, 

With its turrets tall and gloomy, with its 
walls dark, damp, and cold— 

‘ I’ve a lover in that prison, doomed this 
very night to die 

At the ringing of the Curfew, and no 
earthly help is nigh. 

Cromwell will not come till sunset;” and 
her face grew strangely white 
As she breathed the husky whisper, “ Cur¬ 
few must not ring to-night!” 

“ Bessie,” calmly spoke the sexton—and his 
accents pierced her heart 
Like the piercing of an arrow, like a dead¬ 
ly poisoned dart— 

“ Long, long years I’ve rung the Curfew 
from that gloomy shadowed tower ; 
Every evening, just at sunset, it has told 
the twilight hour; 

I have done my duty ever, tried to do it 
just and right, 

Now I’m old, I still must do it: Curfew, 
girl, must ring to-night!” 

Wild her eyes and pale her features, stern 
and white her thoughtful brow, 

And within her secret bosom Bessie made 
a solemn vow. 

She had listened while the judges read, 
without a tear or sigh, 

“At the ringing of the Curfew, Basil Un¬ 
derwood must die.” 

Axid her breath came fast and faster, and 
her eyes grew large and bright, 

As in undertone she murmured, “Curfew 
must not ring to-night!” 

With quick step she bounded forward, 
sprang within the old church-door, 
Left the old man threading slowly paths 
he’d trod so oft before; 


Not one moment paused the maiden, but 
with eye and cheek aglow 
Mounted up the gloomy tower, where the 
bell swung to and fro: 

As she climbed the dusty ladder, on which 
fell no ray of light, 

Up and up, her white lips saying, “Curfew 
shall not ring to-night!” 

{She has reached the topmost ladder, o’er 
her hangs the great dark bell, 

Awful is the gloom beneath her like the 
pathway down to hell; 

Lo, the ponderous tongue is swinging, ’tis 
the hour of Curfew now, 

And the sight has chilled her bosom, stopped 
her breath and paled her brow. 
Shall she let it ring? No, never! Flash her 
eyes with sudden light, 

And she springs and grasps it firmly: “ Cur¬ 
few shall not ring to-night!” 

Out she swung, far out; the city seemed a 
speck of light below; 

She ’twdxt heaven and earth suspended 
as the bell swung to and fro; 

And the sexton at the bell-rope, old and 
deaf, heard not the bell, 

But he thought it still was ringing fair 
young Basil’s funeral knell. 

Still the maiden clung more firmly, and, 
with trembling lips and white, 

Said, to hush her heart’s wild beating, 
“ Curfew shall not ring to-night!” 

It was o’er: the bell ceased swaying, and 
the maiden stepped once more 
Firmly on the dark old ladder, where for 
hundred years before 

Human foot had not been planted; but 
the brave deed she had done 
Should be told long ages after:—often as 
the setting sun 

Should illume the sky with beauty, agM 
sires, with heads of white, 

Long should tell the little children, u Cur¬ 
few did not ring that night.” 

O’er the distant hills came Cromwell; Bes¬ 
sie sees him, and her brow, 

Full of hope and full of gladness, has no 
anxious traces now. 







408 


FIRESIDE ENCYCLOPAEDIA OF POETRY 


At his feet she tells her story, shows her 
hands all bruised and torn ; 

And her face so sweet and pleading, yet 
with sorrow pale and worn, 

Touched his heart with sudden pity—lit 
his eye with misty light; 

“Go, your lover lives!” said Cromwell; 
“Curfew shall not ring to-night!” 

Rosa Hartwick Thorpe. 


Glenlogie. 

Threescore o’ nobles rade up the king’s 
ha’, 

But bonnie Glenlogie’s the flower o’ them 
a’, 

Wi’ his milk-white steed and his bonnie 
black e’e, 

“ Glenlogie,dearmither, Glenlogieforme ! ” 

“ Oh, haud your tongue, daughter, ye’ll get 
better than he.” 

“ Oh, say nae sae, mither, for that canna be; 

Though Doumlie is richer and greater than 
he, 

Yet if I maun tak him, I’ll certainly dee. 

“ Where will I get a bonnie boy, to win 
hose and shoon, 

Will gae to Glenlogie, and come again 
soon?” 

“ Oh, here am I, a bonnie boy, to win hose 
and shoon, 

Will gae to Glenlogie, and come again 
soon.” 

When he gaed to Glenlogie, ’twas “ Wash 
and go dine;” 

’Twas “ Wash ye, my pretty boy, wash and 
go dine.” 

“ Oh, ’twas ne’er my father’s fashion, and it 
ne’er shall be mine 

To gar a lady’s errand wait till I dine. 

“ But there is, Glenlogie, a letter for thee.” 

The first line that he read, a low laugh 
gave he; 

The next line that he read, the tear blindit 
his e’e; 

But the last line that he read, he gart the 
table flee. 


“ Gar saddle the black horse, gar saddle 
the brown; 

Gar saddle the swiftest steed e’er rade frae 
a town 

But lang ere the horse was drawn and 
brought to the green, 

Oh, bonnie Glenlogie was twa mile his lane. 

When he came to Glenfeldy’s door, little 
mirth was there; 

Bonnie Jean’s mother was tearing her hair. 
“ Ye’re welcome, Glenlogie, ye’re wel¬ 
come,” said she,— 

“ Ye’re Avelcome, Glenlogie, your Jeanie to 
see.” 

Pale and wan was she when Glenlogie 
gaed ben, 

But red and rosy grew she whene’er he 
sat down; 

She turn’d awa’ her head, but the smile 
was in her e’e, 

“ Oh, binna fear’d, mither, I’ll maybe no 
dee.” 

Author Unknown. 

Ginevra. 

If thou shouldst ever come by choice or 
chance 

To Modena, where still religiously 
Among her ancient trophies is preserved 
Bologna’s bucket (in its chain it hangs 
Within that reverend tower, the Guir- 
landine) 

Stop at a Palace near the Reggio gate, 
Dwelt in of old by one of the Orsini. 

Its noble gardens, terrace above terrace, 
And rich in fountains, statues, cypresses, 
Will long detain thee; thro’ their arched 
walks, 

Dim at noonday, discovering many a 
glimpse 

Of knights and dames, such as in old 
romance, 

And lovers, such as in heroic song, 
Perhaps the two, for groves were their 
delight, 

That in the spring-time, as alone they sat, 
Venturing together on a tale of love, 

Read only part that day.—A summer sun 
Sets ere one half is seen; but ere thou go, 








LEGENDARY AND BALLAD POETRY. 


Enter the house—pry thee, forget it not—• 
And look a while upon a picture there. 

’Tis of a Lady in her earliest youth, 

The very last of that illustrious race, 

Done by Zampieri—but I care not whom. 
He who observes it, ere he passes on 
Gazes his fill, and comes and comes again, 
That he may call it up when far away. 

She sits, inclining forward as to speak, 
Her lips half open, and her finger up, 

As tho’ she said, “ Beware!” her vest of 
gold 

Broider’d with flowers, and clasp’d from 
head to foot, 

An emerald stone in every golden clasp; 
And on her brow, fairer than alabaster, 

A coronet of pearls. But then her face, 
So lovely, yet so arch, so full of mirth, 
The overflowings of an innocent heart— 

It haunts me still, tho’ many a year has fled, 
Like some wild melody ! 

Alone it hangs 

Over a mouldering heirloom, its compan¬ 
ion, 

An oaken chest, half eaten by the worm, 
But richly carved by Antony of Trent 
With Scripture stories from the Life of 
Christ; 

A chest that came from Venice, and had 
held 

The ducal robes of some old Ancestor. 
That by the way—it may be true or false— 
But don’t forget the picture; and thou 
wilt not 

When thou hast heard the tale they told 
me there. 

She was an only child; from infancy 
The joy, the pride of an indulgent Sire. 
Her Mother dying of the gift she gave, 
That precious gift, what else remained to 
him? 

The young Ginevra w r as his all in life, 

Still as she grew, for ever in his sight; 

And in her fifteenth year became a bride, 
Marrying an only son, Francesco Doria, 
Her playmate from her birth, and her first 
love. 

Just as she looks there in her bridal 
dress, 

She was all gentleness, all gaiety, 

Her pranks the favorite theme of every 
tongue. 


409 


But now the day was come, the day, the 
hour; 

Now, frowning, smiling, for the hundredth 
time, 

The nurse, that ancient lady, preach’d de¬ 
corum ; 

And, in the lustre of her youth, she gave 

Her hand, with her heart in it, to Francesco. 

Great was the joy; but at the Bridal 
feast, 

When all sat down, the Bride was wanting 
there. 

Nor was she -to be found! Her Father 
cried, 

“ ’Tis but to make a trial of our love!” 

And filled his glass to all; but his hand 
shook, 

And soon from guest to guest the panic 
spread. 

’Twas but that instant she had left Fran¬ 
cesco, 

Laughing and looking back and flying 
still, 

Her ivory tooth imprinted on his finger. 

But now, alas, she was not to be found ; 

Nor from that hour could anything be 
guess’d, 

But that she was not! 

Weary of his life, 

Francesco flew to Venice, and forthwith 

Flung it away in battle with the Turk. 

Orsini lived; and long might’st thou have 
seen 

An old man wandering as in quest of some¬ 
thing, 

Something he could not find—he knew not 
what. 

When he was gone, the house remain’d 
a while 

Silent and tenantless—then went to stran 
gers. 

Full fifty years were past, and all forgot, 

When on an idle day, a day of search 

’Mid the old lumber in the Gallery, 

That mouldering chest was noticed: and 
’twas said 

By one as young, as thoughtless as Gi¬ 
nevra, 

“ Why not remove it from its lurking- 
place?” 

’Twas done as soon as said; but on the 
way 












410 


FIRESIDE ENCYCLOPAEDIA OF POETRY. 


It burst, it fell; and lo, a skeleton, 

With here and there a pearl, an emerald 
stone, 

A golden clasp, clasping a shred of gold. 

A 1 1 else had perish’d—save a nuptial 
ring, 

And a small seal, her mother’s legacy, 

Engraven with a name, the name of both, 

“ Ginevra.” 

There then had she found a grave! 

Within that chest had she conceal’d her¬ 
self, 

Fluttering with joy, the happiest of the 
happy; 

When a spring-lock, that lay in ambush 
there, 

Fasten’d her down for ever! 

Samuel Rogers. 

The Bull-Fight of Gazul. 

King Almanzor of Granada, lie hath bid 
the trumpet sound, 

He hath summon’d all the Moorish lords 
from the hills and plains around ; 

From Vega and Sierra, from Betis and 
Xenil, 

They have come with helm and cuirass of 
gold and twisted steel. 

’Tis the holy Baptist’s feast they hold in 
royalty and state, 

And they have closed the spacious lists, 
beside the Alhambra’s gate ; 

In gowns of black with silver laced, within 
the tented ring, 

Eight Moors to fight the bull are placed in 
presence of the king. 

Eight Moorish lords, of valor tried, with 
stalwart arm and true, 

The onset of the beasts abide, as they come 
rushing through : 

The deeds they’ve done, the spoils they’ve 
won, fill all with hope and trust; 

Vet, ere high in heaven appears the sun, 
they all have bit the dust. 

Then sounds the trumpet clearly, then 
clangs the loud tambour : 

Make room, make room for Gazul!—throw 
wide, throw wide the door !— 


Blow, blow the trumpet clearer still! more 
loudly strike the drum !— 

The alcayde of Algava to fight the bull 
doth come. 

And first before the king he pass’d, with 
reverence stooping low; 

And next he bow’d him to the queen, and 
the Infantas all a-row; 

Then to his lady’s grace he turn’d, and she 
to him did throw 

A scarf from out her balcony was whiter 
than the snow 7 . 

With the life-blood of the slaughter’d lords 
all slippery is the sand, 

Yet proudly in the centre hath Gazul ta’en 
his stand; 

And ladies look with heaving breast, and 
lords with anxious eye : 

But firmly he extends his arm—his look 
is calm and high. 

Three bulls against the knight are loosed, 
and two come roaring on : 

He rises high in stirrup, forth stretching 
his rejon; 

Each furious beast upon the breast he deals 
him such a blow, 

He blindly totters and gives back across 
the sand to go. 

“Turn, Gazul—turn !” the people cry: the 
third comes up behind ; 

Low to the sand his head holds he, his nos¬ 
trils snuff the wind ;— 

The mountaineers that lead the steers 
without stand whispering low, 

“ Now thinks this proud alcayde to stun 
Harpado so ?” 

From Gaudiana comes lie not, he comes 
not from Xenil, 

From Guadalarif of the plain, or Barves 
of the hill; 

But where from out the forest burst Xa- 
rama’s waters clear, 

Beneath the oak trees was he nursed,—this 
proud and stately steer. 

Dark is his hide on either side, but the 
blood within doth boil, 

And the dun hide glows, as if on fire, as 
he paws to the turmoil: 









LEGENDARY AND BALLAD POETRY. 


411 


His eyes are jet, and they are set in crys¬ 
tal rings of snow; 

But now they stare with one red glare of 
brass upon the foe. 

Upon the forehead of the bull the horns 
stand close and near,— 

From out the broad and wrinkled skull 
like daggers they appear ; 
llis neck is massy, like the trunk of some 
old, knotted tree, 

Whereon the monster’s shagged mane, like 
billows curl’d ye see. 

His legs are short, his hams are thick, his 
hoofs are black as night; 

Like a strong Hail he holds his tail in 
fierceness of his might; 

Like some thing molten out of iron, or 
hewn from forth the rock, 

Harpado of Xarama stands, to bide the 
alcayde’s shock. 

Now stops the drum: close, close they come; 

thrice meet, and thrice give back ; 
The white foam of Harpado lies on the 
charger’s breast of black,— 

The white foam of the charger on Har- 
pado’s front of dun ;— 

Once more advance upon his lance,—once 
more, thou fearless one ! 

Once more, once more !—in dust and gore 
to ruin must thou reel!— 

In vain, in vain thou tearest the sand with 
furious heel!— 

In vain, in vain, thou noble beast!—I see, 
I see thee stagger ! 

Now keen and cold thy neck must hold 
the stern alcaydfe’s dagger ! 

They have slipp’d a noose around his feet, 
six horses are brought in, 

And away they drag Harpado with a loud 
and joyful din. 

Now stoop thee, lady, from thy stand, and 
the ring of price bestow 
Upon Gazul of Algava, that hath laid 
Harpado low. 

(From the Spanish.) 

.Tohn Gibson Lockhart. 


(loirs Judgment on a Wicked 
Bishop. 

This summer and autumn had been so wet, 
That in winter the corn was growing yet. 
’Twas a piteous sight to sec all around 
The grain lie rotting on the ground. 

Every day the starving poor 
Crowded around Bishop Hatto’s door, 

For he had a plentiful last year’s store, 
And all the neighborhood could tell 
His granaries were furnish’d well. 

At last Bishop Hatto appointed a day 
To quiet the poor without delay; 

He bade them to his great barn repair, 
And they should have food for the winter 
there. 

Kejoiced the tidings good to hear, 

The poor folk Hock’d from far and near ; 
The great barn was full as it could hold 
Of women and children, and young and 
old. 

Then, when he saw it could hold no more, 
Bishop Hatto he made fast the door, 

And while for mercy on Christ they call, 
He set tire to the barn, and burnt them 
all. 

“ I’ faith, ’tis an excellent bonfire!” quoth 
he, 

“And the country is greatly obliged to 
me 

For ridding it, in these times forlorn, 

Of rats that only consume the corn.” 

So then to his palace returned he, 

And he sat down to supper merrily, 

And he slept that night like an innocent 
man; 

But Bishop Hatto never slept again. 

In the morning, as he enter’d the hall 
Where his picture hung against the wall, 

A sweat like death all over him came, 

For the rats had eaten it out of the frame. 

As he look’d, there came a man from his 
farm, 

He had a countenance white with alarm: 





412 


FIRESIDE ENCYCLOPAEDIA OF POETRY. 


“ My Lord, I open’d your granaries this 
morn, 

And the rats had eaten all your corn.” 

Another came running presently, 

And he was pale as pale could be. 

“ Fly, my lord bishop, fly!” quoth he, 

“ Ten thousand rats are coming this way, 
The Lord forgive you for yesterday!” 

“ I’ll go to my tower on the Rhine,” replied 
he; 

“ ’Tis the safest place in Germany ; 

The walls are high, and the shores are 
steep, 

And the stream is strong, and the water 
deep.” 

Bishop Hatto fearfully hasten’d away, 

And he cross’d the Rhine without delay, 
And reach’d his tower, and barr’d with 
care 

All the windows, doors, and loopholes 
there. 

He laid him down and closed his eyes, 

But soon a scream made him arise ; 

He started, and saw two eyes of flame 
On his pillow, from whence the screaming 
came. 

He listen’d and look’d,—it was only the 
cat, 

But the bishop he grew more fearful for 
that, 

For she sat screaming, mad with fear, 

At the army of rats that were drawing 
near. 

For they have swum over the river so 
deep, 

And they have climb’d the shores so 
steep, 

And up the tower their way is bent, 

To do the work for which they were 
sent. 

They are not to be told by the dozen or 
score ; 

By thousands they come, and by myriads 
and more ; 


Such numbers had never been heard of 
before, 

Such a judgment had never been witness’d 
of yore. 

, Down on his knees the bishop fell, 

And faster and faster his beads did he tell, 
As louder and louder, drawing near, 

The gnawing of their teeth he could hear. 

And in at the windows, and in at the door, 
And through the walls helter-skelter they 
pour; 

And down from the ceiling and up through 
the floor, 

From the right and the left, from behind 
and before, 

From within and without, from above and 
below,— 

And all at once to the bishop they go. 

They have whetted their teeth against the 
stones, 

And now they pick the bishop’s bones ; 
They gnaw’d the flesh from every limb, 
For they were sent to do judgment on him! 

Robekt Southey. 

The Mistletoe Bough. 

The mistletoe hung in the castle hall, 

The holly branch shone on the old oak 
wall, 

And the baron’s retainers were blithe and 

gay, 

And keeping their Christmas holiday; 

The baron beheld, with a father’s pride, 
His beautiful child, young Lovell’s bride; 
While she, with her bright eyes, seemed to 
be 

The star of the goodly company. 

. Oh, the mistletoe bough ! 

“ I’m weary of dancing now,” she cried, 
“Here tarry a moment,—I’ll hide, I’ll 
hide! 

And, Lovell, be sure thou’rt first to trace 
The clue to my secret hiding-place.” 

Away she ran,—and her friends began 
Each tower to search, and each nock to 


scan; 










LEGENDARY AND BALLAD POETRY. 


4 J*J 


And young Lovell cried, “ Oh, where dost 
thou hide? 

I’m lonesome without thee, my own dear 
bride!” 

Oh, the mistletoe bough ! 

They sought her that night, and they sought J 
her next day, 

And they sought her in vain, till a week 
passed away! 

In the highest—the lowest—the loneliest 
spot, 

Young Lovell sought wildly, but found her 
not. 

And years flew by, and their grief at last 

Was told as a sorrowful tale long past; 

And when Lovell appeared, the children 
cried, 

“ See! the old man weeps for his fairy 
bride.” 

Oh, the mistletoe bough ! 

At length an old chest, that had long lain 
hid, 

Was found in the Castle—they raised the 
lid, 

And a skeleton form lay mouldering there, 

With a bridal wreath in her clustering 
hair! 

Oh ! sad was her fate! in sportive jest, 

She hid from her lord in the old oak 
chest; 

It closed with a spring!—and her bridal 
bloom 

Lay withering there in a living tomb. 

Oh, the mistletoe bough ! 

Thomas Haynes Bayly. 

The Glove and the lions. 

King Francis w r as a hearty king, and 
loved a royal sport, 

And one day, as his lions fought, sat look¬ 
ing on the coux't. 

The nobles fill’d the benches, with the 
ladies in their pride, 

And ’mongst them sat the Count de Lorge, 
with one for whom he sigh’d : 

And truly ’twas a gallant thing to see that 
crowning show, 

Valor and love, and a king above, and the 
roval beasts below. I 


Ramp’d and roar’d the lions, with horrid 
laughing jaws; 

They bit, they glared, gave blows like 
beams, a wind went with their paws, 

With wallowing might and stifled roar 
they roll’d on one another, 

Till all the pit with sand and mane was 
in a thunderous smother ; 

The bloody foam above the bars came 
whisking through the air ; 

Said Francis then, “ Faith, gentlemen, 
we’re better here than there.” 

De Lorge’s love o’erheard the king, a 
beauteous, lively dame, 

With smiling lips and sharp bright eyes, 
which always seem’d the same ; 

She thought, The Count my lover is brave 
as brave can be ; 

He surely would do wondrous things to 
show his love of me ; 

King, ladies, lovers, all look on; the oc¬ 
casion is divine; 

I'll drop my glove, to prove his love; great 
glory will be mine. 

She dropp’d her glove, to prove his love, 
then look’d at him and smiled ; 

He bow’d, and in a moment leap’d among 
the lions wild: 

The leap was quick, return was quick, he 
has regain’d his place, 

Then threw the glove, but not with love, 
right in the lady’s face. 

“By heaven,” said Francis, “rightly 
done!” and he rose from where he 
sat; 

“ No love,” quoth he, “ but vanity, sets 
love a task like that.” 

Leigh Hdnt. 

The Doncaster St. Leger. 

The sun is bright, the sky is clear, 
Above the crowded course, 

As the mighty moment draweth near 
Whose issue shows the horse. 

The fairest of the land are here 
To watch the struggle of the year, 

The dew of beauty and of mirth, 

Lies on the living flowers of earth. 













414 


FIRESIDE ENCYCLOPAEDIA OF POETRY. 


And blushing cheek and kindling eye 
Lend brightness to the sun on high : 

And every corner of the north 
lists poured her hardy yeomen forth; 

The dweller by the glistening rills 
That sound among the Craven hills; 

The stalwart husbandman who holds 
His plough upon the eastern wolds; 

The sallow shrivelled artisan, 

Twisted below the height of man, 

Whose limbs and life have mouldered down 
Within some foul and clouded town, 

Are gathered thickly on the lea, 

Or streaming from far homes to see 
If Yorkshire keeps her old renown; 

Or if the dreaded Derby horse 
Can sweep in triumph o’er her course; 
With the same look in every face, 

The same keen feeling, they retrace 
The legends of each ancient race: 
Recalling Reveller in his pride, 

Or Blacklock of the mighty stride, 

Or listening to some gray-haired sage 
Full of the dignity of age; 

How his old father loved to tell 
Of that long struggle—ended well, 

When strong of heart, the Whitworth 
Bay 

From staggering Herod strode away: 

How Hambletonian beat of yore 
Such rivals as are seen no more; 

How Yorkshire racers, swift as they, 
Would leave this southern horse half way, 
But that the creatures of to-day, 

Are cast in quite a different mould 
From what he recollects of old. 

Clear peals the bell; at that known sound, 
Like bees, the people cluster round; 

On either side upstarting then 

One close dark wall of breathless men, 

Far down as eye can stretch, is seen 
Along yon vivid strip of green, 

Where, keenly watched by countless eyes, 
’Mid hopes, and fears, and prophecies, 
Now fast, now slow, now here, now there, 
With hearts of tire, and limbs of air, 
Snorting and prancing—sidling by 
With arching neck, and glancing eye, 

In every shape of strength and grace— 
The horses gather for the race; 

Soothed for a moment all, they stand 
Together, like a sculptured band, 


Each quivering eyelid flutters thick, 

Each face is flushed, each heart beats quick; 
And all around dim murmurs pass, 

Like low winds moaning on the grass. 
Again—the thrilling signal sound— 

And off at once, with one long bound, 

Into the speed of thought they leap, 

Like a proud ship rushing to the deep. 

A start! a start! they’re off, by heaven, 
Like a single horse, though twenty-seven. 
And ’mid the flash of silks we scan 
A Yorkshire jacket in the van ; 

Hurrah ! for the bold bay mare! 

I’ll pawn my soul her place is there 
Unheaded to the last, 

For a thousand pounds, she wins unpast— 
Hurrah! for the matchless mare! 

A hundred yards have glided by 
And they settle to the race, 

More keen becomes each straining eye, 
More terrible the pace. 

Unbroken yet o’er the gravel road 
Like maddening waves the troop has flowed. 

But the speed begins to tell. 

And Yorkshire sees, with eye of fear, 

The Southron stealing from the rear. 

| Ay ! mark his action ay ell! 

Behind he is, but Avhat repose! 

How steadily and clean he goes! 

What latent speed his limbs disclose ! 
What power in every stride he shows! 
They see, they feel; from man to man 
The shivering thrill of terror ran, 

And every soul instinctive kneAv 
It lay between the mighty two. 

The world without, the sky above, 

Have glided from their straining evea- 
Future and past, and hate and love, 

The life that wanes, the friend that dies, 
E’en grim remorse, who sits behind 
Each thought and motion of the mind,— 
These now are nothing, Time and Space 
Lie in the rushing of the race, 

As with keen shouts of hope and fear 
They watch it in its wild career. 

Still far ahead of the glittering throng, 
Dashes the eager mare along, 

And round the turn, and past the hill, 
Slides up the Derby winner still. 








LEGENDARY AND BALLAD POETRY 


415 


The twenty-five that lay between 
Are blotted from the stirring scene, 

And the wild cries which rang so loud, 
Sink by degrees throughout the crowd, 

To one deep humming, like the tremulous 
roar 

Of seas remote along a northern shore. 

In distance dwindling to the eye 
Right opposite the stand they lie, 

And scarcely seem to stir; 

Though an Arab scheich his wives would 
give 

For a single steed, that with them could 
live 

Three hundred yards without a spur. 

But though so indistinct and small 
You hardly see them move at all, 

There are not wanting signs, which show 
Defeat is busy as they go. 

Look how the mass, which rushed away 
As full of spirit as the day, 

So close compacted for a while, 

Is lengthening into single file. 

Now inch by inch it breaks, and wide 
And spreading gaps the line divide. 

As forward still, and far away 
Undulates on the tired array. 

Gay colors, momently less bright, 

Fade flickering on the gazer’s sight, 

Till keenest eyes can scarcely trace 
The homeward ripple of the race. 

Care sits on every lip and brow. 

“ Who leads? who fails? how goes it now?” 
One shooting spark of life intense, 

One throb of refluent suspense, 

And a fair rainbow-colored light 
Trembles again upon the sight. 

Look to yon turn! Already there 
Gleams the pink and black of the fiery 
mare, 

And through that, which was but now a 

gap, 

Creeps on the terrible white cap. 

Half strangled in each throat a shout 
Wrung from their fevered spirits out, 
Booms through the crowd like muffled 
drums, 

“ His jockey moves on him. He comes.” 
Then momently like gusts you heard, 

“ He’s sixth—he’s fifth—he’s fourth—lie’s 
third •” 


A nd on, like some glancing meteor-flame, 
The stride of the Derby winner came. 

And during all that anxious time 
(Sneer as it suits you at my rhyme) 

The earnestness became sublime; 

Common and trite as is the scene, 

At once so thrilling, and so mean, 

To him who strives his heart to scan, 

And feels the brotherhood of man, 

That needs must be a mighty minute, 

When a crowd has but one soul within it. 
As some bright ship with every sail, 
Obedient to the urging gale, 

Darts by vext hulls, which side by side, 
Dismasted on the raging tide, 

Are struggling onward, wild and wide, 
Thus, through the reeling field he flew, 
And near, and yet more near he drew; 
Each leap seems longer than the last, 

Now—now—the second horse is past, 

And the keen rider of the mare, 

With haggard looks of feverish care, 
Hangs forward on the speechless air, 

By steady stillness nursing in 
The.remnant of her speed to win. 

One other bound—one more—’tis done ; 
Right up to her the horse has run, 

And head to head, and stride for stride 
Newmarket’s hope, and Yorkshire’s pride, 
Like horses harnessed side by side, 

Are struggling to the goal. 

Ride! gallant son of Ebor, ride! 

For the dear honor of the north, 

Stretch every bursting sinew forth 
Put out thy inmost soul,— 

And with knee, and thigh, and tightened 
rein. 

Lift in the mare by might and main ; 

The feelings of the people reach, 

What lies beyond the springs of speech, 

So that there rises up no sound 
From the wide human life around ; 

One spirit flashes from each eye, 

One impulse lifts each heart throat-high, 
One short and panting silence broods, 

O’er the wildly-working multitudes, 

As on the struggling coursers press, 

So deep the eager silentness, 

That underneath their feet the turf 
Seems shaken, like the eddying surf 
When it tastes the rushing gale, 








41G 


FIRESIDE ENCYCLOPJEDIA OF POETR 1 


And the singing fall of the heavy whips, 
Which tear the flesh away in strips, 

As the tempest tears the sail, 

On the throbbing heart and quivering ear, 
Strike vividly distinct, and near. 

But mark what an arrowy rush is there, 

“ He’s beat! he’s beat!—by heaven, the 
mare!” 

Just on the post her spirit rare 
When Hope herself might well despair; 
When Time had not a breath to spare; 
With bird-like dash shoots clean away 
And by half a length has gained the day. 
Then how to life that silence wakes! 

Ten thousand hats thrown up on high 
Send darkness to the echoing sky, 

And like the crash of hill-pent lakes, 

Out bursting from their deepest fountains, 
Among the rent and reeling mountains, 

At once, from thirty thousand throats 
Rushes the Yorkshire roar, 

And the name of their northern winner 
floats 

A league from the course, and more. 

Sir Francis Hastings Doyle. 


The Twa Corbies. 

As I gaed doun by yon house-en’ 

Twa corbies there were sittan their lane: 
The tane unto the tother sae, 

“Oh where shall we gae dine to-day?” 

“ Oh down beside yon new-faun birk 
There lies a new-slain knicht; 

Nae livin kens that he lies there, 

But his horse, his hounds, and his lady 
fair. 

“ His horse is to the huntin gane, 

His hounds to bring the wild deer hame; 
His lady’s ta’en another mate; 

Sae we may make our dinner swate. 

“ Oh w r e’ll sit on his bonnie briest-bane, 
And we’ll pyke out his bonnie gray een; 
Wi’ ae lock o’ his gowden hair 
We’ll theek our nest when it blaws bare. 

“ Mony a ane for him maks mane, 

But nane sail ken ■where he is gane ; 

Ower his banes, when they are bare, 

The wind sail blaw for evermair!” 

Author Unknown. 


The Lake of the Dismal Swamp. 

“ They made her a grave too cold and 
damp 

For a soul so warm and true; 

And she’s gone to the Lake of the Dismal 
’Swamp, 

Where all night long, by a firefly lamp, 
She paddles her white canoe. 

“And her firefly lamp I soon shall see, 
And her paddle I soon shall hear; 

Long and loving our life shall be, 

And I’ll hide the maid in a cypress tree, 
When the footstep of death is near.” 

Away to the Dismal Swamp he speeds,— 
His path was rugged and sore, 

Through tangled juniper, beds of reeds, 
Through many a fen where the serpent 
feeds, 

And man never trod before. 

And when on the earth he sank to sleep, 

If slumber his eyelids knew, 

He lay where the deadly vine doth weep 
Its venomous tear, and nightly steep 
The flesh with blistering dew ! 

And near him the she-wolf stirr’d the 
brake, 

And the copper-snake breathed in his 
ear, 

' Till he starting cried, from his dream 
awake, 

“ Oh when shall I see the dusky Lake, 

And the white canoe of my dear?” 

He saw the Lake, and a meteor bright 
Quick over its surface play’d,— 

“ Welcome,” he said, “ my dear one’s 
light!” 

And the dim shore echo’d for many a 
night 

The name of the death-cold maid. 

Till he hollow’d a boat of the birchen 
bark, 

Which carried him off from shore; 

Far, far he follow’d the meteor spark, 

The wind was high and the clouds were 
dark, 

And the boat return’d no more. 

But oft, from the Indian hunter’s camp, 

I This lover and maid so true 








LEGENDARY AND BALLAD POETRY 


417 


Are seen at the hour of midnight damp 
To cross the Lake by a firefly lamp, 

And paddle their white canoe ! 

Thomas Moore. 


The High Tide on the Coast of 
Lincolnshire, (mi.) 

The old mayor climb’d the belfry tower, 
The ringers rang by tw r o, by three; 

“ Pull, if ye never pull’d before; 

Good ringers, pull your best,” quoth he, 

“ Play uppe, play uppe, O Boston bells ! 

Ply all your changes, all your swells, 

Play up, ‘ The Brides of Enderbv.’ ” 

Men say it was a stolen tyde— 

The Lord that sent it, He knows all; 

But in myne ears doth still abide 
The message that the bells let fall: 

And there was naught of strange, beside 
The flights of mews and peewits pied 
By millions crouch’d on the old sea wall. . 

I sat and spun within the doore, 

My thread brake off, I raised myne eyes; 
The level sun, like ruddy ore, 

Lay sinking in the barren skies; 

And dark against day’s golden death 
She moved where Lindis wandereth, 

My sonne’s faire wife, Elizabeth. 

“ Cusha ! Cusha ! Cuslia !” calling, 

Ere the early dews w'ere felling, 

Farre away I heard her song. 

“ Cusha ! Cusha !” all along; 

Where the reedy Lindis flow r eth, 

Floweth, floweth, 

From the meads where melick groweth 
Faintly came her milking-song— 

“ Cusha ! Cusha ! Cusha !” calling, 

“ For the dews will soon be falling ; 

Leave your meadow-grasses mellow, 
Mellow, mellow; 

Quit your cowslips, cowslips yellow ; 
Come uppe, Whitefoot, come uppe, Light- 
foot; 

Quit the stalks of parsley hollow, 

Hollow, hollow; 

Come uppe, Jetty, rise and follow, 

From the clovers lift your head ; 

27 


Come up, Whitefoot, come up, Lightfoot, 
Come uppe, Jetty, rise and follow, 

Jetty, to the milking-shed.” 

If it be long, ay, long ago, 

When I beginne to think howe long, 
Againe I hear the Lindis flow, 

Swift as an arrowe sharp and strong ; 
And all the aire, it seemeth mee, 

Bin full of floating bells (sayth shee), 

That ring the tune of Enderby. 

Alle fresh the level pasture lay, 

And not a shadowe mote be seene, 

Save where full fyve good miles away 
The steeple tower’d from out the greene; 
And lo ! the great bell farre and wide 
Was heard in all the country side 
That Saturday at eventide. 

The swanherds where their sedges are 
Moved on in sunset’s golden breath, 

The shepherd-lads I heard afarre, 

And my sonne’s wife, Elizabeth ; 

Till floating o’er the grassy sea 
Came downe that kindly message free, 

The “ Brides of Mavis Enderby.” 

Then some look’d uppe into the sky, 

And all along where Lindis flows 
To where the goodly vessels lie, 

And where the lordly steeple shows. 
They sayde, “ A nd why should this thing 
be? 

What danger lowers by land or sea ? 

They ring the tune of Enderby ! 

“ For evil news from Mablethorpe, 

Of pyrate galleys warping down ; 

For shippes ashore beyond the scorpe, 
They have not spared to wake the towne; 
But while the west bin red to see, 

And storms be none, and pyrates flee, 

Why ring ‘ The Brides of Enderby ’ ?” 

I look’d without, and lo ! my sonne 
Came riding down with might and main• 
He raised a shout as he drew on, 

Till all the welkin rang again, 

“ Elizabeth ! Elizabeth I” 

(A sweeter woman ne’er drew breath 
Than my sonne’s wife, Elizabeth.) 










418 


FIRESIDE ENCYCLOPAEDIA OF POETRY. 


“ The old sea wall,” he cried, “ is downe, 
The rising tide comes on apace, 

And boats adrift in yonder towne 
Go sailing uppe the market-place.” 

He shook as one that looks on death : 

“ God, save you, mother!” straight he saith; 
“ Where is my wife, Elizabeth?” 

"Good sonne, where Lindis winds her way, 
With her two bairns I mark’d her long, 
And ere yon bells beganne to play 
Afar I heard her milking song.” 

He look’d across the grassy lea, 

To right, to left, “ Ho, Enderby!” 

They rang “ The Brides of Enderby!” 

With that he cried and beat his breast; 

For, lo! along the river’s bed 
A mighty eygre rear’d his crest, 

And uppe the Lindis raging sped. 

It swept with thunderous noises loud, 
Shaped like a curling snow-white cloud 
Or like a demon in a shroud. 

And rearing Lindis backward press’d 
Shook all her trembling bankes amaine, 
Then madly at the eygre’s breast 

Flung uppe her weltering walls again. 
Then bankes came down with ruin and 
rout, 

Then beaten foam flew round about, 

Then all the mighty floods were out. 

So farre, so fast the eygre drave, 

The heart had hardly time to beat, 
Before a shallow seething wave 
Sobb’d in the grasses at oure feet; 

The feet had hardly time to flee 
Before it brake against the knee, 

And all the world was in the sea. 

Upon the roof we sate that night, 

The noise of bells went sweeping by; 

I mark’d the lofty beacon light 
Stream from the church tower, red and 
high; 

A lurid mark and dread to see ; 

And awesome bells they were to mee, 

That in the dark rang “ Enderby.” 

They rang the sailor lads to guide 

From roofe to roofe who fearless row’d; 
And I—my sonne was at my side, 

And yet the ruddy beacon glow’d; 


And yet he moan’d beneath his breath, 

“ Oh come in life, or come in death, 

0 lost! mv love, Elizabeth.” 

And didst thou visit him no more? 

Thou didst, thou didst, my daughter 
deare; 

The waters laid thee at his doore, 

Ere yet the early dawn was clear. 

Thy pretty bairns in fast embrace, 

The lifted sun shone on thy face, 

Downe drifted to thy dwelling-place. 

That flow strew’d wrecks about the grass, 
That ebbe swept out the flocks to sea; 

A fatal ebbe and flow, alas! 

To manye more than mvne and mee; 
But each will mourn his own (she saith), 
And sweeter woman ne’er drew breath 
Than my sonne’s wife, Elizabeth. 

T shall never hear her more 
By the reedy Lindis shore, 

“ Cusha! Cusha! Cuslia!” calling, 

Ere the early dews be falling; 

T shall never hear her song, 

“ Cusha ! Cusha!” all along 
Where the sunny Lindis flowetli, 

Goeth, floweth; 

From the meads where melick groweth, 

; When the water winding down, 

! Onward floweth to the town. 

i I shall never see her more 
Where the reeds and rushes quiver, 
Shiver, quiver; 

Stand beside the sobbing river, 

Sobbing, throbbing, in its falling 
To the sandy, lonesome shore; 

I shall never hear her calling, 

“ Leave your meadow grasses mellow, 
Mellow, mellow; 

Quit your cowslips, cowslips yellow; 

Come uppe Whitefoot, come uppe Light 
foot, 

Quit your pipes of parsley hollow, 
Hollow, hollow; 

Come uppe Lightfoot, rise and follow, 
Lightfoot, Whitefoot, 

From your clovers lift the head; 

Come uppe, Jetty, follow, follow, 

Jetty, to the milking-shed.” 

Jean Tngelow. 






LEGENDARY AND BALLAD POETRY. 


419 


The Sands of Dee. 

“ Oh, Mary, go and call the cattle home, 
And call the cattle home, 

And call the cattle home, 

Across the sands of Dee.” 

The western wind was wild and dank with 
foam, 

And all alone went she. 

The western tide crept up along the sand, 
And o’er and o’er the sand, 

And round and round the sand, 

As far as eye could see. 

The rolling mist came down and hid the 
land: 

And never home came she. 

“ Oh ! is it weed, or fish, or floating hair— 
A tress of golden hair, 

A drownfed maiden’s hair, 

Above the nets at sea?” 

Was never salmon yet that shone so fair 
Among the stakes on Dee. 

They row’d her in across the rolling 
foam, 

The cruel crawling foam, 

The cruel hungry foam, 

To her grave beside the sea. 

But still the boatmen hear her call the 
cattle home 

Across the sands of Dee. 

Charles Kingsley. 

Barbara Allens Cruelty. 

All in the merry month of May, 

When green buds they were swelling, 
Young Jemmy Grove on his death-bed lay 
For love o’ Barbara Allen. 

He sent his man unto her then, 

To the town where she was dwelling: 

“ Oh haste and come to my master dear, 

If your name be Barbara Allen.” 

Slowly, slowly rase she up, 

And she cam’ where he was lying; 

And when she drew the curtain by, 

Says, “Young man, I think you’re 
dying.” 

“ Oh, it’s I am sick, and very, very sick, 
And it's a’ for Barbara Allen. 


“ Oh the better for me ye’se never be, 

Tho’ your heart’s blude were a-spilling! 

“O, dinna ye min’, young man,” she says, 
“ When the red wine ye were filling, 

That ye made the healths gae round and 
round, 

And ye slighted Barbara Allen?” 

He turn’d his face unto the wa’, 

And death was wi’ him dealing: 

“ Adieu, adieu, my dear friends a’; 

Be kind to Barbara Allen.” 

As she was walking o’er the fields, 

She heard the dead-bell knelling; 

And every jow the dead-bell gave, 

It cried, “Woe to Barbara Allen!” 

“ 0 mother, mother, mak’ my bed, 

To lay me down in sorrow’. 

My love has died for me to-day, 

I’ll die for him to-morrow.” 

Author Unknown. 

Lament of the Border Widow. 

My love he built me a bonny bower, 

! And clad it a’ w r i’ lily flower; 

A braw r er bow r er ye ne’er did see, 

Than my true-love he built for me. 

There came a man by middle day, 

He spied his sport, and w r ent aw r ay; 

And brought the king that very night, 
Who brake my bow’er and slew' my knight. 

He slew my knight, to me sae dear ; 

He slew my knight, and poin’d his gear: 
My servants all for life did flee, 

And left me in extremitie. 

I sew’d his sheet, making my mane; 

I watch’d the corpse mysell alane; 

I w'atch’d his body night and day ; 

I No living creature came that w r ay. 

I took his body on my back, 

And whiles I gaed, and whiles I sat; 

I digg’d a grave, and laid him in, 

And happ’d him with the sod sae green. 

But think nae ye my heart was sair, 

When I laid the mouP on his yellow’ hair? 







420 


FIRESIDE ENCYCLOPAEDIA OF POETRY. 


Oh, think nae ye my heart was wae, 
When I turn’d about, away to gae ? 

Nae living man I’ll love again, 

Since that my lovely knight is slain ; 
Wi’ ae lock o’ his yellow hair 
I’ll chain my heart for evermair. 

Author Unknown. 

The Cruel Sister. 

There were two sisters sat in a hour, 
Binnorie, O Binnorie; 

There came a knight to be their wooer; 

By the bonny milldams of Binnorie. 

He courted the eldest with glove and ring, 
Binnorie, O Binnorie; 

But he lo’ed the youngest abune a’ thing; 
By the bonny milldams of Binnorie. 

He courted the eldest with broach and 
knife, 

Binnorie, O Binnorie; 

But he lo’ed the youngest abune his life; 
By the bonny milldams of Binnorie. 

The eldest she was vexed sair, 

Binnorie, O Binnorie; 

And sore envied her sister fair; 

By the bonny milldams of Binnorie. 

The eldest said to the youngest ane, 
Binnorie, O Binnorie; 

“ Will ye go and see our father’s ships 
come in ?” 

By the bonny milldams of Binnorie. 

She’s ta’en her by the lily hand, 

Binnorie, O Binnorie; 

And led her down to the river strand; 

By the bonny milldams of Binnorie. 

The youngest stude upon a stane, 
Binnorie, O Binnorie; 

The eldest came and push’d her in ; 

Bv the bonny milldams of Binnorie. 

She took her by the middle sma’, 

Binnorie, O Binnorie; 

And dash’d her bonny back to the jaw; 

By the bonny milldams of Binnorie. 

“ 0 sister, sister, reach your hand, 
Binnorie. 0 Binnorie ; 


And ye shall be heir of half my land.”-’ 
By the bonny milldams of Binnorie. 

“ O sister, I’ll not reach my hand, 
Binnorie, O Binnorie; 

And I’ll be heir of all your land; 

By the bonny milldams of Binnorie. 

“Shame fa’ the hand that I should take, 
Binnorie, 0 Binnorie: 

It’s twined me and my world’s make.”— 
By the bonny milldams of Binnorie. 

“ O sister, reach me but your glove, 
Binnorie, O Binnorie; 

And sweet William shall be your love.”— 
By the bonny milldams of Binnorie. 

“Sink on, nor hope for hand or glove! 

Binnorie, O Binnorie; 

And sweet William shall better be my 
love, 

By the bonny milldams of Binnorie. 

“Your cherry cheeks and your yellow 
hair, 

Binnorie, O Binnorie; 

Garr’d me gang maiden evermair.” 

By the bonny milldams of Binnorie. 

Sometimes she sunk, and sometimes she 

swam, 

Binnorie, O Binnorie; 

Until she cam to the miller’s dam ; 

By the bonny milldams of Binnorie. 

“ O father, father, draw your dam ! 

Binnorie, O Binnorie; 

There’s either a mermaid, or a milk-white 

swan. ” 

By the bonny milldams of Binnorie. 

The miller hasted and drew his dam ! 

Binnorie, O Binnorie; 

And there he found a drown’d woman ; 

By the bonny milldams of Binnorie. 

You could not see her yellow hair, 
Binnorie, O Binnorie; 

For gowd and pearls that were so rare; 

By the bonny milldams of Binnorie. 

You could not see her middle sma’, 
Binnorie, 0 Binnorie; 

Her gowden girdle was sae’ bra’; 

By the bonny milldams of Binnorie. 










JOHN KEATS 


LORD MACAULAY 


THOMAS CAMPBELL 


ELIZABETH BARRETT BROWNING 


FAMOUS BRITISH POETS 

All of whom have written immortal lines of verse. 































JEAN INGELOW 


CHARLES KINGSLEY 


WALTER SAVAGE LAN DOR 


REGINALD HEBER 


POETS OF ENGLAND 

Jean Ingelow’s “ Songs of Seven,” Kingsley’s ‘‘Three Fishers,” Landor’s 11 How 
Many Voices,” and Heber’s hymns, are well-known to all song lovers. 
























LEGENDARY AND BALLAD POETRY. 


421 


A famous harper passing by, 

Binnorie, 0 Binnorie; 

The sweet pale face he chanced to spy; 

By the bonny milldams of Binnorie. 

And when he look’d that lady on, 
Binnorie, O Binnorie; 

He sigh’d and made a heavy moan ; 

By the bonny milldams of Binnorie. 

He made a harp of her breast-bone, 
Binnorie, O Binnorie; 

Whose sounds would melt a heart of stone; 
By the bonny milldams of Binnorie. 

The strings he framed of her yellow hair, 
Binnorie, O Binnorie; 

Whose notes made sad the listening ear; 
By the bonny milldams of Binnorie. 

He brought it to her father’s hall, 
Binnorie, O Binnorie; 

And there was the court assembled all; 

By the bonny milldams of Binnorie. 

He laid his harp upon a stone, 

Binnorie, O Binnorie; 

And straight it began to play alone; 

By the bonny milldams of Binnorie. 

“ Ok yonder sits my father, the king, 
Binnorie, O Binnorie; 

And yonder sits my mother, the queen ; 

By the bonny milldams of Binnorie. 

“ And yonder stands my brother Hugh, 
Binnorie, O Binnorie; 

And by him my William, sweet and true.” 
By the bonny milldams of Binnorie. 

But the last tune that the harp play’d 
then, 

Binnorie, O Binnorie; 

Was—“ Woe to my sister, false Helen !” 
By the bonny milldams of Binnorie. 

Author Unknown. 

The Last buccaneer. 

Oh, England is a pleasant place for them 
that’s rich and high ; 

But England is a cruel place for such poor 
folks as I; 


And such a port for mariners I ne’er snail 
see again 

As the pleasant Isle of Avfes, beside the 
Spanish main. 

There were forty craft in Aves that were 
both swift and stout, 

All furnish’d w r ell with small-arms and 
cannons round about; 

And a thousand men in Avfes made laws 
so fair and free 

To choose their valiant captains and obey 
them loyally. 

Thence we sail’d against the Spaniard with 
his hoards of plate and gold, 

Which he wrung with cruel tortures from 
the Indian folk of old ; 

Likewise the merchant captains, with 
hearts as hard as stone, 

Who flog men and keel-haul them and 
starve them to the bone. 

Oh the palms grew high in Aves and fruits 
that shone like gold, 

And the colibris and parrots they were 
gorgeous to behold; 

And the negro maids to Avfes from bondage 
fast did flee, 

To welcome gallant sailors a-sweeping in 
from sea. 

Oh sweet it was in Av&s to hear the land¬ 
ward breeze 

A-swirig with good tobacco in a net be¬ 
tween the trees, 

With a negro lass to fan you while you lis¬ 
ten’d to the roar 

Of the breakers on the reef outside that 
never touch’d the shore. 

But Scripture saith, an ending to all fine 
things must be, 

So the King’s ships sail’d on Avfes, and 
quite put down were we. 

All day we fought like bulldogs, but they 
burst the booms at night; 

And I fled in a piragua sore wounded from 
the fight. 

Nine days I floated starving, and a negro 
lass beside, 

Till for all I tried to cheer her, the poor 
young thing she died ; 








422 


FIRESIDE ENCYCLOPAEDIA OF POETRY. 


But as I lay a-gasping a Bristol sail came 

by, 

And brought me home to England here to 
beg until I die. 

And now I’m old and going—I’m sure I 
can’t tell where; 

One comfort is, this world’s so hard I can’t 
be worse off' there : 

If I might but be a sea-dove I’d fly across 
the main, 

To the pleasant Isle of Avfes, to look at it 
once again. 

Charles Kingsley. 

The King of Denmark’s Ride. 

Word was brought to the Danish king 
(Hurry!) 

That the love of his heart lay suffering 

And pined for the comfort his voice would 
bring; 

(Oh ride as though you were flying!) 

Better he loves each golden curl 

On the brow of that Scandinavian girl 

Than his rich crown jewels of ruby and 
pearl ; 

And his Rose of the Isles is dying! 

Thirty nobles saddled with speed; 

(Hurry!) 

Each one mounting a gallant steed 

Which he kept for battle and days of 
need; 

(Oh ride as though you were flying!) 

Spurs were struck in the foaming flank; 

Worn-out chargers stagger’d and sank ; 

Bridles were slacken’d, and girths were 
burst; 

But ride as they would, the king rode 
first, 

For his Rose of the Isles lay dying! 

His nobles are beaten one by one; 

(Hurry!) 

They have fainted, and falter’d, and home¬ 
ward gone; 

His little fair page now follows alone, 

For strength and for courage trying. 

The king look’d back at that faithful child; 

Wan was the face that answering smiled; 

They pass’d the drawbridge with clattering 
din, 

Then he dropp’d ; and only the king rode in 

Where his Rose of the Isles lay dying! j 


The king blew a blast on his bugle horn ; 

(Silence!) 

No answer came; but faint and forlorn 

An echo return’d on the cold gray morn, 
Like the breath of a spirit sighing. 

The castle portal stood grimly wide; 

None welcomed the king from that weary 
ride; 

For dead, in the light of the dawning 
day, 

The pale sweet form of the welcomer lay, 
Who had yearn’d for his voice while 
dying ! 

The panting steed, with a drooping crest, 
Stood weary. 

The king return’d from her chamber of 
rest, 

The thick sobs choking in his breast; 

And, that dumb companion eying, 

The tears gush’d forth which he strove to 
check ; 

He bow’d his head on his charger’s neck: 

“ O steed—that every nerve didst strain, 

Dear steed, our ride hath been in vain 
To the halls where my love lay dying!” 

Caroline Norton. 


A Song of the North. 

“Away! away!” cried the stout Sir 
John, 

“ While the blossoms are on the trees ; 
For the summer is short and the time 
speeds on, 

As we sail for the northern seas. 

Ho! gallant Crozier and brave Fitz James! 

We will startle the world, I trow, 

When we find a way through the North¬ 
ern seas 

That never was found till now! 

A good stout ship is the Erebus 
As ever unfurl’d a sail, 

And the Terror will match wdth as brave a 
one 

As ever outrode a gale.” 

So they bade farewell to their pleasant 
homes, 

To the hills and the valleys green, 

With three hearty cheers for their native 

isle, 

And three for the English queen. 




LEGENDARY AND BALLAD POETRY. 


423 


They sped them away beyond cape and 
bay, 

Where the day and the night are one— 

Where the hissing light in the heavens 
grew bright 

And flamed like a midnight sun. 

There was naught below save the fields of 
snow, 

That stretch’d to the icy Pole; 

And the Esquimaux, in his strange canoe, 
Was the only living soul! 

A long the coast like a giant host 
The glittering icebergs frown’d, 

Jr they met on the main like a battle- 
plain, 

And crash’d with a fearful sound ! 

The seal and the bear, with a curious stare, 
Look’d down from the frozen heights, 

And the stars in the skies with their great 
wild eyes, 

Peer’d out from the Northern Lights. 

The gallant Crozier and brave Fitz 
James, 

And even the stout Sir John, 

Felt a doubt like a chill through their 
warm hearts thrill 
As they urged the good ships on. 

They sped them away, beyond cape and 
bay, 

Where even the tear-drops freeze; 

But no way was found by a strait or sound, 
To sail through the Northern seas; 

They sped them away, beyond cape and 
bay, 

And they sought, but they sought in 
vain, 

For no way was found, through the ice 
around, 

To return to their homes again. 

Then the wild waves rose, and the waters 
froze 

Till they closed like a prison-wall; 

And the icebergs stood, in the sullen flood, 
Like their jailers grim and tall. 

O God ! O God !—it was hard to die 
In that prison-house of ice! 

For what was fame, or a mighty name, 
When life was the fearful price? 

The gallant Crozier and brave Fitz James, 
And even the stout Sir John, 


Had a secret dread and their hopes all 
fled, 

As the weeks and the months pass’d on. 
Then the Ice King came, with his eyes of 
flame, 

And look’d on that fated crew; 

His chilling breath was as cold as death, 
And it pierced their warm hearts 
through. 

A heavy sleep, that was dark and deep, 
Came over their weary eyes, 

And they dream’d strange dreams of the 
hills and streams, 

And the blue of their native skies. 

The Christmas chimes of the good old 
times 

Were heard in each dying ear, 

And the dancing feet and the voices sweet 
Of their wives and their children dear! 
But it faded away—away—away ! 

Like a sound on a distant shore; 

And deeper and deeper grew the sleep, 

Till they slept to wake no more ! 

Oh, the sailor’s wife and the sailor’s child! 

They will weep and watch and pray; 
And the Lady Jane, she will hope in 
vain 

As the long years pass away ! 

The gallant Crozier and brave Fitz James, 
And the good Sir John have found 
An open way to a quiet bay, 

And a port where we all are bound. 

Let the waters roar on the ice-bound shore 
That circles the frozen Pole, 

But there is no sleep and no grave so 
deep 

That can hold a human soul. 

Elizabeth Doten. 

Rhyme of the Duchess May. 

To the belfry, one by one, went the ringers 
from the sun, 

Toll slowly. 

And the oldest ringer said, “ Ours is music 
for the Dead, 

When the Rebecks are all done.” 

Six abeles i’ the churchyard grow on the 
nortliside in a row, 

Toll slowly. 










424 


FIRESIDE ENCYCLOPAEDIA OF POETRY. 


And the shadows of their tops rock across 
the little slopes 
Of the grassy graves below. 

On the south side and the west, a small 
river runs in haste, 

Toll slowly. 

And between the river flowing and the fair 
green trees a-growing 
Do the dead lie at their rest. 

On the east I sate that day, up against a 
willow gray: 

Toll slowly. 

Through the rain of willow-branches, I 
could see the low hill-ranges, 

And the river on its way. 

There I sate beneath the tree, and the bell 
tolled solemnly, 

Toll slowly. 

While the trees and river’s voices flowed 
between the solemn noises,— 

Yet death seemed more loud to me. 

There I read this ancient rhyme, while the 
bell did all the time 

Toll slowly. 

And the solemn knell fell in with the tale 
of life and sin, 

Like a rhythmic fate sublime. 

THE RHYME. 

Broad the for.est stood (I read) on the hills 
of Linteged,— 

Toll slowly. 

And three hundred years had stood mute 
adown each hoary wood, 

Like a full heart having prayed. 

And the little birds sang east, and the little 
birds sang west, 

Toll slowly. 

And but little thought was theirs of the 
silent antique years, 

In the building of their nest. 

Down the sun dropt large and red on the 
towers of Linteged— 

Toll slowly. 

Lance and spear upon the height, bristling 
strange in fiery light, 

While the castle stood in shade. 


I There, the castle stood up black, with the 
red sun at its back,— 

Toll slowly. 

Like a sullen smoldering pyre, with a top 
that flickers fire, 

When the wind is on its track. 

And five hundred archers tall did besiege 
the castle wall, 

Toll slowly. 

And the castle, seethed in blood, fourteen 
days and nights had stood, 

And to-night was near its fall. 

Yet thereunto, blind to doom, three months 
since a bride did come,— 

Toll slowly. 

One who proudly trod the floors, and softlj 
whispered in the doors, 

“ May good angels bless our home.” 

Oh, a bride of queenly eyes, with a fronl 
of constancies; 

Toll slowly. 

Oh, a bride of cordial mouth,—where tin 
untired smile of youth 
Did light outward its own sighs. 

’Twas a Duke’s fair orphan-girl, and her 
uncle’s ward, the Earl, 

Toll slowly. 

Who betrothed her, twelve years old, for 
the sake of dowry gold, 

To his son Lord Leigh, the churl. 

But what time she had made good all her 
years of womanhood, 

Toll slowly. 

Unto both those Lords of Leigh spake she 
out right sovranly, 

“ My will runneth as my blood. 

“And while this same blood makes red this 
same right hand’s veins,” she said, 
Toll slowly. 

“ ’Tis my will as lady free not to wed a 
Lord of Leigh, 

But Sir Guy of Linteged.” 

The old Earl he smiled smooth, then he 
sighed for wilful youth,— 

Toll slowly. 

“ Good my niece, that hand withal looketh 
somewhat soft and small, 

For so large a will, in sooth.” 










LEGENDARY AND BALLAD POETRY. 


4 2b 


She, too, smiled by that same sign,—but ) 
her smile was cold and fine,— 

Toll slowly. 

“ Little hand clasps muckle gold, or it were 
not worth the hold 
Of thy son, good uncle mineI” 

Then the young lord jerked his breath, and 
sware thickly in his teeth, 

Toll slowly. 

“ He would wed his own betrothed, an she 
loved him, an she loathed, 

Let the life come or the death.” 

Up she rose with scornful eyes, as her 
father’s child might rise, 

Toll slowly. 

“Thy hound’s blood, my Lord of Leigh, 
stains thy knightly heel,” quoth she, 
“And he moans not where he lies: 

“ But a woman’s will dies hard, in the hall 
or on the sward!— 

Toll slowly. 

By that grave, my lords, which made me 
orphaned girl and dowered lady, 

I deny you wife and ward.” 

Unto each she bowed her head, and swept j 
past with lofty tread. 

Toll slowly. 

Ere the midnight-bell had ceased, in the 
chapel had the priest 
Blessed her, bride of Linteged. 

Fast and fain the bridal train along the 
night-storm rode amain: 

Toll slowly. 

Hard the steeds of lord and serf struck their 
hoofs out on the turf, 

In the pauses of the rain. 

Fast and fain the kinsmen’s train, along 
the storm pursued amain— 

Toll slowly. 

Steed on steed-track, dashing off—thicken¬ 
ing, doubling hoof on hoof, 

In the pauses of the rain. 

And the bridegroom led the flight on his 
red-roan steed of might, 

Toll slowly. 

And the bride lay on his arm, still as if she 
feared no harm, 

Smiling out into the night. 


‘ 1 Dost thou fear ?” he said at last;—“ Nay!” 
she answered him in haste,— 

Toll slowly. 

“ Not such death as we could find—only 
life with one behind— 

Ride on as fast as fear—ride fast!” 

Up the mountain wheeled the steed—girth 
to ground, and fetlocks spread,— 
Toll slowly. 

Headlong bounds, and rocking flanks,— 
down he staggered—down the banks, 
To the towers of Linteged. 

High and low the serfs looked out, red the 
flambeaux tossed about,— 

Toll slowly. 

In the courtyard rose the cry—“ Live the 
Duchess and Sir Guy!” 

But she never heard them shout. 

On the steed she dropt her cheek, kissed 
his mane and kissed his neck,— 
Toll slowly. 

“ I had happier died by thee than lived on 
a Lady Leigh,” 

Were the first words she did speak. 

But a three months’ joyaunce lay ’twixt 
that moment and to-day, 

Toll slowly. 

When five hundred archers tall stand be¬ 
side the castle wall, 

To recapture Duchess May. 

And the castle standeth black, with the red 
sun at its back,— 

Toll slowly. 

And a fortnight’s siege is done—and, ex¬ 
cept the Duchess, none 
Can misdoubt the coming wrack. 

Then the captain, young Lord Leigh, with 
his eyes so gray of blee, 

Toll slowly. 

And thin lips that scarcely sheath the cold 
white gnashing of his teeth, 
Gnashed in smiling, absently, 

Cried aloud—“ So goes the day, bridegroom 
fair of Duchess May !— 

Toll slowly. 

Look thy last upon that sun ! if thou seest 
to-morrow’s one, 

’Twill be through a foot of clay. 














42(J 


FIRESIDE ENCYCLOPAEDIA OF POETRY. 


“ Ha, fair bride! Dost hear no sound save | 
that moaning of the hound?—- 
Toll slowly. 

Thou and I have parted troth,—yet I keep 
my vengeance oath, 

And the other may come round. 

“ Ha! thy will is brave to dare, and thy new 
love past compare,— 

Toll slowly. 

Yet thine old love’s falchion brave is as 
strong a thing to have 
As the will of lady fair. 

“ Peck on blindly, netted dove!—if a wife’s j 
name thee behove, 

Toll slowly. 

Thou shalt wear the same to-morrow, ere 
the grave has hid the sorrow 
Of thy last ill-mated love. 

“O’er his fixed and silent mouth thou and 
I will call back troth, 

Toll slowly. 

He shall altar be and priest,—and he will 
not cry at least, 

‘I forbid you,—I am loath !’ 

“ I will wring thy fingers pale in the gaunt¬ 
let of my mail: 

Toll slowly. 

‘ Little hand and muckle gold ’ close shall 
lie within my hold, 

As the sword did to prevail.” 

O the little birds sang east, and the little 
birds sang west, 

Toll slowly. 

0, and laughed the Duchess May, and her 
soul did put away 
All his boasting for a jest. 

In her chamber did she sit, laughing low 
to think of it,— 

Toll slowly. 

“Tower is strong and will is free—thou 
canst boast, my Lord of Leigh, 

But thou boastest little wit.” 

In her tire-glass gaztid she, and she blushed 
right womanly, 

Toll slowly. 

She blushed half from her disdain—half, 
her beauty was so plain, 

—“ Oath for oath, my Lord of Leigh !” 


Straight she called her maidens in—“ Since 
ye gave me blame herein, 

Toll slowly. 

That a bridal such as mine should lack 
gauds to make it fine, 

Come and shrive me from that sin. 

“ It is three months gone to-day, since 1 
gave mine hand away, 

Toll slowly. 

Bring the gold and bring the gem, we will 
keep bride state in them, 

While we keep the foe at bay. 

“ On your arms I loose your hair ;—comb 
it smooth and crown it fair, 

Toll slowly. 

I would look in purple-pall from this 
lattice down the wall, 

And throw scorn to one that’s there!’' 

O, the little birds sang east, and the little 
birds sang west, 

Toll slowly. 

On the tower the castle’s lord leant in 
silence on his sword, 

With an anguish in his breast. 

With a spirit-laden weight, did he lean 
down passionate. 

Toll slowly. 

They have almost sapped the wall,—they 
will enter there withal, 

With no knocking at the gate. 

Then the sword he leant upon, shivered— 
snapped upon the stone, 

Toll slowly. 

“Sword,” he thought, with inward laugh, 
“ ill thou servest for a staff 
When thy nobler use is done! 

“ Sword, thy nobler use is done!—tower is 
lost, and shame begun ; 

Toll slowly. 

If we met them in the breach, hilt to hilt 
or speech to speech, 

We should die there, each for one. 

“If we met them at the wall, we should 
singly, vainly fall,— 

Toll slowly. 

But if I die here alone,—then I die, who 
am but one, 

And die nobly for them all. 





LEGENDARY AND BALLAD POETRY. 


427 


“ Five true friends lie for my sake—in the 
moat and in the brake,— 

Toll slowly. 

Thirteen warriors lie at rest, with a black 
wound in the breast, 

And not one of these will wake. 

"And no more of this shall be!—heart- 
blood weighs too heavily— 

Toll slowly. 

And I could not sleep in grave, with the 
faithful and the brave 
Heaped around and over me. 

“Since young Clare a mother hath, and 
young Ralph a plighted faith; 

Toll slowly. 

Since mv pale young sister’s cheeks blush 
like rose when Ronald speaks, 
Albeit never a word she saith— 

“These shall never die for me—life-blood 
falls too heavily: 

Toll slowly. 

And if /die here apart—o’er my dead and 
silent heart 

They shall pass out safe and free. 

“ When the foe hath heard it said—‘ Death 
holds Guy of Linteged,’— 

Toll slowly. 

That new corse new peace shall bring; and 
a blessed, blessed thing 
Shall the stone be at its head. 

“ Then my friends shall pass out free, and 
shall bear my memory,— 

Toll slowly. 

Then my foes shall sleek their pride, sooth¬ 
ing fair my widowed bride 
Whose sole sin was love of me. 

“ With their words all smooth and sweet 
they will front her and entreat, 

Toll sloivly. 

And their purple pall will spread under¬ 
neath her fainting head, 

While her tears drop over it. 

“ She will weep her woman’s tears, she will 
pray her woman’s prayers,— 

Toll slowly. 

But her heart is young in pain, and her 
hopes will spring again 
By the suntime of her years. 


“Ah! sweet May—ah, sweetest grief!—once 
I vowed thee my belief, 

Toll slowly. 

That thy name expressed thy sweetness— 
May of poets, in completeness! 
Now my May-day seemeth brief.” 

All these silent thoughts did swim o’er his 
eyes grown strange and dim,— 

Toll slowly. 

Till his true men in the place wished they 
stood there face to face 
With the foe instead of him. 

“ One last oath, my friends that wear faith¬ 
ful hearts to do and dare !— 

Toll slowly. 

Tower must fall, and bride be lost!—swear 
me service worth the cost 
—Bold they stood around to swear. 

“ Each man clasp my hand and swear, by 
the deed we failed in there, 

Toll sloivly. 

Not for vengeance, not for right, will ye 
strike one blow to-night!” 

Pale they stood around—to swear. 

“One last boon, young Ralph and Clare ! 
faithful hearts to do and dare! 

Toll slowly. 

Bring that steed up from his stall, which 
she kissed before you all: 

Guide him up the turret stair. 

“Ye shall harness him aright, and lead up¬ 
ward to this height! 

Toll slowly. 

Once in love and twice in Avar, hath he 
borne me strong and far, 

He shall bear me far to-night.” 

Then his men looked to and fro, when they 
heard him speaking so. 

Toll slowly, 

—“ ’Las ! the noble heart!” they thought, 
—“he in sooth is grief-distraught. 
Would we stood here with the foe 1” 

But a fire flashed from his eye, ’twixt their 
thought and their reply,— 

Toll slowly. 

“ Have ye so much time to waste? We 
who ride here, must ride fast, 

As we Avish our foes to fly.” 







428 


FIRESIDE ENCYCLOPAEDIA OF POETRY. 


They have fetched the steed with care, in 
the harness he did wear, 

Toll slowly. 

Past the court and through the doors, 
across the rushes of the tioors; 

But they goad him up the stair. 

Then from out her bower chambere, did the 
Duchess May repair. 

Toll slowly. 

“ Tell me now what is your need,” said the 
lady, “ of this steed, 

That ye goad him up the stair?” 

Calm she stood ; unbodkined through, fell 
her dark hair to her shoe,— 

Toll slowly. 

And the smile upon her face, ere she left 
the tiring-glass, 

Had not time enough to go. 

“ Get thee back, sweet Duchess May ! hope 
is gone like yesterday,— 

Toll slowly. 

One half-hour completes the breach; and 
thy lord grows wild of speech: 

Get thee in, sweet lady, and pray. 

14 In the east tower, highest of all,—loud 
he cries for steed from stall. 

Toll slowly. 

4 He would ride as far,’ quoth he, 4 as for 
love and victory, 

Though he rides the castle wall.’ 

“And we fetch the steed from stall, up 
where never a hoof did fall. 

Toll sloivly. 

Wifely prayer meets deathly need ! may the 
sweet Heavens hear thee plead, 

If he rides the castle-wall.” 

Low she dropt her head, and lower, till her 
hair coiled on the floor, 

Toll slowly. 

And tear after tear you heard fall distinct 
as any word 

Which you might be listening for. 

“Get thee in, thou soft ladie!—here is 
never a place for thee!— 

Toll slowly. 

Braid thy hair and clasp thy gown, that thy 
beauty in its moan 

May find grace with Leigh of Leigh.” ! 


She stood up in bitter case, with a pale yet 
stately face, 

Toll slowly. 

Like a statue thunderstruck, which, though 
quivering, seems to look 
Right against the thunder-place. 

And her foot trod in, with pride, her own 
tears i’ the stone beside,— 

Toll slowly. 

“Go to, faithful friends, go to!—Judge no 
more what ladies do,— 

No, nor how their lords may ride!” 

Then the good steed’s rein she took, and 
his neck did kiss and stroke: 

Toll slowly. 

Soft he neighed to answer her; and then 
followed up the stair, 

For the love of her sweet look. 

Oh, and steeply, steeply wound up the nar¬ 
row stair around,— 

Toll slowly. 

Oh, and closely, closely speeding, step by 
step beside her treading, 

Did he follow, meek as hound. 

On the east tower, high’st of all,—there, 
where never a hoof did fall,— 

Toll slowly. 

Out they swept, a vision steady—noble 
steed and lovely lady, 

Calm as if in bower or stall! 

Down she knelt at her lord’s knee, and she 
looked up silently,— 

Toll slowly. 

And he kissed her twice and thrice, for that 
look within her eyes 
Which he could not bear to see. 

Quoth he, “Get thee from this strife,—and 
the sweet saints bless thy life! 

Toll slowly. 

In this hour I stand in need of my noble 
red-roan steed— 

But no more of my noble wife.” 

Quoth she, “ Meekly have I done all thy 
biddings under sun : 

Toll slowly. 

But by all my womanhood,—which is 
proved so true and good, 

I will never do this one. 










FIVE POETS OF THE NINETEENTH CENTURY 

Wordsworth, Tennyson and Austin being Poets Laureate. 











GREAT ENGLISH AUTHORS 

Who have written one or more poems of enduring fame. 





LEGENDARY AND BALLAD POETRY. 


42!» 


“Now, by womanhood’s degree, and by 
wifehood’s verity, 

Toll slowly. 

In this hour if thou hast need of thy noble 
red-roan steed, 

Thou hast also need of me. 

“By this golden ring ye see on this lifted 
hand pardie, 

Toll slowly. 

ff, this hour, on castle-wall can be room 
for steed from stall, 

Shall be also room for me. 

* So the sweet saints with me be ” (did she 

utter solemnly), 

Toll slowly. 

* If a man, this eventide, on this castle wall 

will ride, 

He shall ride the same with me.” 

Oh, he sprang up in the selle, and he 
laughed out bitter well,— 

Toll slowly. 

Wouldst thou ride among the leaves, as 
we used on other eves, 

To hear chime a vesper bell ?” 

She clang closer to his knee—“Ay, beneath 
the cypress tree!— 

Toll slowly. 

Mock me not; for otherwhere than along 
the green-wood fair, 

Have I ridden fast with thee! 

“ Fast I rode, with new-made vows, from 
my angry kinsman’s house! 

Toll slowly. 

What! and would you men should reck 
that I dared more for love’s sake 
As a bride than as a spouse? 

“ What, and would you it should fall, as a 
proverb, before all, 

Toll slowly. 

That a bride may keep your side while 
through castlegate you ride, 

Yet eschew the castle-wall ?” 

Ho! the breach yawns into ruin, and roars 
up against her suing,— 

Toll slowly. 

With the inarticulate din, and the dreadful 
falling in— 

Shrieks of doing and undoing ! 


Twice he wrung her hands in twain; but 
the small hands closed again. 

Toll slowly. 

Back he reined the steed—back, back ! but 
she trailed along his track 
With a frantic clasp and strain ! 

Evermore the foemen pour through the 
crash of window and door,— 

Toll slowly. 

And the shouts of Leigh of Leigh, and the 
shrieks of “ Kill!” and “Flee!” 
Strike up clear amid the roar. 

Thrice he wrung her hands in twain,—but 
they closed and clung again,— 

✓ Toll slowly. 

Wild she clung, as one, withstood, clasps a 
Christ upon the rood, 

In a spasm of deathly pain. 

She clung wild and she clung mute,—with 
her shuddering lips half shut, 

Toll slowly. 

Her head fallen as half in swound,—hair 
and knee swept on the ground, 

She clung wild to stirrup and foot. 

Back he reined his steed back-thrown on 
the slippery coping-stone. 

Toll slowly. 

Back the iron hoofs did grind on the battle¬ 
ment behind, 

Whence a hundred feet went down. 

And his heel did press and goad on the 
quivering flank bestrode, 

Toll slowly. 

“ Friends and brothers, save my wife !—> 
Pardon, sweet, in change for life,— 
But I ride alone to God.” 

Straight as if the Holy name had up- 
breathed her like a flame, 

Toll slowly. 

She upsprang, she rose upright,—in his 
selle she sat in sight; 

By her love she overcame. 

And her head was on his breast, where she 
smiled as one at rest,— 

Toll slowly. 

“Ring,” she cried, “0 vesper-bell, in the 
beech-wood’s old chapelle! 

But the passing-bell rings best.” 








430 


FIRESIDE ENCYCLOPAEDIA OF POETRY. 


They have caught out at the rein which Sir 
Guy threw loose—in vain,— 

Toll slowly. 

For the horse in stark despair, with his 
front hoofs poised in air, 

On the last verge rears amain. 

Now he hangs, he rocks between—and his 
nostrils curdle in,— 

Toll slowly. 

And he shivers head and hoof—and the 
flakes of foam fall off; 

And his face grows fierce and thin ! 

And a look of human woe from his staring 
eyes did go, 

Toll slowly. 

And a sharp cry uttered he, in a foretold 
agony 

Of the headlong death below. 

And “Ring, ring,—thou passing bell,” still 
she cried, “ i’ the old chapelle!”— 
Toll slowly. 

Then back-toppling, crushing back, a dead 
weight flung out to wrack, 

Horse and riders overfell. 


Oh, the little birds sang east, and the little 
birds sang ivest,— 

Toll slowly. 

And I read this ancient Rhyme in the 
churchyard, while the chime 
Slowly tolled for one at rest. 

The abeles moved in the sun, and the river 
smooth did run, 

Toll slowly. 

And the ancient Rhyme rang strange, with 
its passion and its change, 

Here, where all done lay undone. 

And beneath a willow tree I a little grave 
did see, 

Toll slowly. 

Where was graved,— Here undefiled, li- 
eth Maud, a three-year child, 
Eighteen hundred forty-three. 

Then, 0 Spirits—did I say—ye who rode 
so fast that day,— 

Toll slowly. 


Did star-wheels and angel-wings, with their 
holy win nowings, 

Keep beside you all the way ? 

Though in passion ye would dash, with a 
blind and heavy crash, 

Toll slowly. 

Up against the thick-bossed shield of God’s 
judgment in the field, 

Though your heart and brain were rash, 

Now, your will is all unwilled—now your 
pulses are all stilled,— 

Toll sloivly. 

Now, ye lie as meek and mild (whereso 
laid) as Maud the child, 

Whose small grave was lately filled. 

Beating heart and burning brow, ye are 
very patient now, 

Toll slowly. 

And the children might be bold to pluck 
the kingcups from your mold 
Ere a month had let them grow. 

And you let the goldfinch sing in the alder 
near in spring, 

Toll slowly. 

Let her build her nest and sit all the three 
weeks out on it, 

Murmuring not at anything. 

In your patience ye are strong; cold and 
heat ye take not wrong: 

TolTslowly. 

When the trumpet of the angel blows 
eternity’s evangel, 

Time will seem to you not long. 

Oh, the little birds sang east, and the little 
birds sang west, 

Toll slowly. 

And I said in underbreath,—all our life is 
mixed with death, 

And who knoweth which is best? 

Oh, the little birds sang east, and the little 
birds sang west, 

Toll slowly. 

And I smiled to think God’s greatness 
flowed around our incompleteness,— 
Round our restlessness, His rest. 

Elizabeth Bakrett Browning. 







Poems of Nature. 


A Hymn. 

The Seasons. 

These, as they change, Almighty Father, 
these 

Are but the varied God. The rolling 
year 

Is full of Thee. Forth in the pleasing 
spring 

Thy Beauty walks, thv Tenderness and 
Love. 

Wide flush the fields ; the softening air is 
balm; 

Echo the mountains round; the forest 
smiles; 

And every sense, and every heart, is joy. 

Then conies thy Glory in the summer 
months, 

With light and heat refulgent. Then thy 
Sun 

Shoots full perfection through the swell¬ 
ing year; 

And oft thy Voice in dreadful thunder 
speaks, 

And oft at dawn, deep noon, or falling 
eve, 

By brooks and groves, in hollow-whisper¬ 
ing gales. 

Thy Bounty shines in autumn unconfined, 

And spreads a common feast for all that 
lives. 

la winter awful Thou ! with clouds and 
storms 

Around Thee thrown, tempest o’er tempest 
roll’d, 

Majestic darkness! On the whirlwind’s 
wing, 

Biding sublime, Thou bid’st the World 
adore, 

And humblest Nature with thy northern 
blast. 


Mysterious round! what skill, what 
force divine, 

Deep felt, in these appear! a simple train, 

Yet so delightful mix’d, with such kind 
art, 

Such beauty and beneficence combined; 

Shade, unperceived, so softening into 
shade; 

And all.so forming an harmonious whole, 

That, as they still succeed, they ravish 
still. 

But wandering oft, with brute unconscious 
gaze, 

Mau marks not Thee, marks not the mighty 
Hand, 

That, ever busy, wheels the silent spheres ; 

Works in the secret deep; shoots, steam¬ 
ing, thence 

The fair profusion that o’erspreads the 
spring; 

Flings from the sun direct the flaming 
day; 

Feeds every creature; hurls the tempest 
forth; 

And, as on earth this grateful change re¬ 
volves, 

With transport touches all the springs of 
life. 

Nature, attend! join, every living soul 

Beneath the spacious temple of the sky, 

In adoration join ; and, ardent, raise 

One general song! To Him, ye vocal 
. gales, 

Breathe soft, whose Spirit in your freshness 
breathes: 

Oh, talk of Him in solitary glooms ; 

Where, o’er the rock, the scarcely waving 
pine 

Fills the brown shade with a religious 
awe. 

And ye, whose bolder note is heard afar, 

431 







FIRESIDE ENCYCLOPAEDIA OF POETRY. 


432 


Who shake the astonish’d world, lift high 
to heaven 

The impetuous song, and say from whom 
you rage. 

His praise, ye brooks, attune, ye trembling 
rills ; 

And let me catch it as T muse along. 

Ye headlong torrents, rapid and pro¬ 
found ; 

Ye softer floods, that lead the humid 
maze 

Along the vale ; and thou, majestic main, 

A secret world of wonders in thyself, 

Sound His stupendous praise, whose greater 
voice 

Or bids you roar, or bids your roarings 
fall. 

Soft roll your incense, herbs, and fruits, 
and flowers, 

In mingled clouds to Him, whose sun 
exalts, 

Whose breath perfumes you, and whose 
pencil paints. 

Ye forests, bend, ye harvests, wave, to Him; 

Breathe your still song into the reaper’s 
heart, 

As home he goes beneath the joyous 
moon. 

Ye that keep watch in heaven, as earth 
asleep 

Unconscious lies, effuse your mildest 
beams, 

Ye constellations, while your angels strike, 

Amid the spangled sky, the silver lyre. 

Great source of day ! best image here be¬ 
low 

Of thy Creator, ever pouring wide, 

From world to world, the vital ocean 
round, 

On Nature write with every beam His 
praise. 

The thunder rolls: be hush’d the prostrate 
world, 

While cloud to cloud returns the solemn 
hymn. 

Bleat out afresh, ye hills ; ye mossy rocks, 

Retain the sound; the broad responsive 
low, 

Ye valleys, raise; for the Great Shepherd 
reigns, 

And His unsuffering kingdom yet will 
come. 


Ye woodlands sfll, awake: a boundless 
song 

Burst from the groves ; and when the rest¬ 
less day, 

Expiring, lays the warbling world asleep. 
Sweetest of birds ! sweet Philomela, charm 
The listening shades, and teach the night 
His praise. 

Ye chief, for whom the whole creation 
smiles, 

At once the head, the heart, and tongue 
of all, 

Crown the great hymn ! in swarming cities 
vast, 

Assembled men to the deep organ join 
The long-resounding voice, oft breaking 
clear, 

At solemn pauses, through the swelling 
bass; 

And, as each mingling flame increases 
each, 

In one united ardor rise to heaven. 

Or if you rather choose the rural shade, 
And find a fane in every sacred grove, 
There let the shepherd’s flute, the virgin’s 
lay, 

The prompting seraph, and the poet’s 
lyre, 

Still sing the God of Seasons, as they 
roll. 

For me, when I forget the darling theme, 
Whether the blossom blows, the summer 
ray 

Russets the plain, inspiring autumn gleams, 
Or winter rises in the blackening east, 

Be my tongue mute, my fancy paint no 
more, 

And, dead to joy, forget my heart to beat! 
Should fate command me to the farthest 
verge 

Of the green earth, to distant barbarous 
climes, 

Rivers unknown to song,—where first the 
sun 

Gilds Indian mountains, or his setting 
beam 

Flames on the Atlantic isles,—’tis naught 
to me: 

Since God is ever present, ever felt, 

In the void waste, as in the city full, 

And where He vital breathes, there must 
be joy. 









POEMS OF NATURE. 


4*»o 


When even at last the solemn hour shall 
come, 

And wing my mystic flight to future 
worlds, 

[ cheerful will obey; there, with new 
powers, 

Will rising wonders sing : I cannot go 
Where Universal Love not smiles around, 
Sustaining all yon orbs, and all their 
suns ; 

From seeming evil still educing good, 

4nd better thence again, and better stiil, 

In infinite progression. But I lose 
Myself in Him, in Light ineffable ! 

Come, then, expressive Silence, muse His 
praise. 

James Thomson. 

To Pan. 

All ye woods, and trees, and bowers, 

All ye virtues and ye powers 
That inhabit in the lakes, 

In the pleasant springs or brakes, 

Move your feet 
To our sound, 

Whilst we greet 
All this ground 
With his honor and his name 
That defends our flocks from blame. 

He is great, and he is just, 

He is ever good, and must 
Thus be honor’d. Daffodillies, 

Roses, pinks, and lovfed lilies, 

Let us fling, 

Whilst we sing, 

Ever holy, 

Ever holy, 

Ever honor’d, ever young! 

Thus great Pan is ever sung. 

Beaumont and Fletcher. 

Description of Spring. 

The soote season, that bud and bloom forth \ 
brings, 

With green hath clad the hill, and eke 
the vale; 

The nightingale with feathers new she 
sings; 

The turtle to her make hath told her 
tale. 

28 


Summer is come, for every spray now 
springs; 

The hart hath hung his old head on the 

pale, 

The buck in brake his winter coat he 
slings; 

The fishes flete with new repaired 
scale; 

The adder all her slough away she flings; 

The swift swallow pursueth the flies 
smale; 

The busy bee her honey now she mings; 

Winter is worn that was the flowres’ 
bale. 

And thus I see among these pleasant 
things 

Each care decays, and yet my sorrow 
springs. 

Henry Howard 
(Earl of Surrey). 


To Spring. 

Sweet Spring, thou turn’st with all thy 
goodly train, 

Thy head with flames, thy mantle bright 
with flowers; 

The zephyrs curl the green locks of the 
plain, 

The clouds for joy in pearls weep down 
their showers. 

Thou turn’st, sweet youth—but, ah! my 
pleasant hours 

And happy days, with thee come not 
again; 

The sad memorials only of my pain 

Do with thee turn, which turn my sweets 
in sours. 

Thou art the same which still thou wast 
before, 

Delicious, wanton, amiable, fair; 

But she whose breath embalm’d thy whole¬ 
some air 

Is gone; nor gold nor gems her can re¬ 
store. 

Neglected Virtue, seasons go and come, 

When thine forgot lie closed in a tomb. 

What doth it serve to see sun’s burning 
face? 

And skies enamell’d with both Indies’ 
gold? 








FIRESIDE ENCYCLOPEDIA OF POETRY. 


434 


Or moon at night in jetty chariot roll’d, 

And all the glory of that starry place ? 

What doth it serve earth’s beauty to behold, i 

The mountain’s pride, the meadow’s j 
flowery grace; 

The stately comeliness of forests old, 

The sport of floods which would them¬ 
selves embrace? 

What doth it serve to hear the sylvans’ 
songs, 

The wanton merle, the nightingale’s sad 
strains, 

Which in dark shades seem to deplore my 
wrongs ? 

For what doth serve all that this world | 
contains, 

Sith she, for whom those once to me were 
dear, 

No partof them can have now w xth me here ? 

William Drummond. 

Chorus. 

From “ Atalanta in Calydon.” 

When the hounds of spring are on win¬ 
ter’s traces, 

The mother of months in meadow or 
plain 

Fills the shadows and windy places 

With lisp of leaves and ripple of rain; 

And the brown bright nightingale amorous 

Is half assuaged for Itylus, 

For the Thracian ships and the foreign 
faces; 

The tongueless vigil, and all the pain. 

Come with bows bent and with emptying 
of quivers, 

Maiden most perfect, lady of light, 

With a noise of winds and many rivers, 

With a clamor of waters, and with 
might; 

Bind on thy sandals, O thou most fleet, 

Over the splendor and speed of thy feet! 

For the faint east quickens, the wan west 
shivers, 

j 

Round the feet of the day and the feet ) 
of the night. 

Where shall we find her, how shall we sing ; 
to her, 

Fold our hands round her knees and 
cling? 


Oh that man’s heart were as fire, and could 
spring to her, 

Fire, or the strength of the streams that 
spring! 

For the stars and the winds are unto her 
As raiment, as songs of the harp-player; 
For the risen stars and the fallen cling to 
her, 

And the south-west wind and the west 
wind sing. 

For winter’s rains and ruins are over, 

And all the season of snows and sins; 
The days dividing lover and lover, 

The light that loses, the night that 
wins; 

And time remember’d is grief forgotten, 
And frosts are slain and flowers begotten, 
And in green underwood and cover 
Blossom by blossom the spring begins. 

The full streams feed on flower of rushes, 
Ripe grasses trammel a travelling foot, 
The faint fresh flame of the young year 
flushes 

From leaf to flower and flower to fruit; 
j And fruit and leaf arc as gold and fire, 

| And the oat is heard above the lyre, 

And the hoof’d heel of a satyr crushes 
The chestnut-husk at the chestnut-root. 

And Pan by noon and Bacchus by night, 
Fleeter of foot than the fleet-foot kid, 
Follow with dancing and fill with de¬ 
light 

The Maenad and the Bassarid; 

And soft as lips that laugh and hide, 
j The laughing leaves of the trees divide, 
And screen from seeing and leave in sight 
The god pursuing, the maiden hid. 

The ivy falls with the Bacchanal’s hair 
Over her eyebrows, shading her eyes ; 
The wild vine slipping down leaves bare 
Her bright breast shortening into sighs; 
The wild vine slips with the weight of its 
leaves, 

But the berried ivy catches and cleaves 
To the limbs that glitter, the feet that 
scare 

The wolf that follows, the fawn that flies. 

Algernon Charles Swinburne. 








POEMS OF NATURE. 


43d 


Ode. 

On the Spring. 

Lo! where the rosy-bosom’d Hours, 

Fair Venus’ train, appear, 

Disclose the long-expecting flowers 
And wake the purple year! 
die Attic warbler pours her throat 
Responsive to the cuckoo’s note, 

The untaught harmony of spring: 
While, whispering pleasure as they fly, 
Cool Zephyrs through the clear blue sky 
Their gather’d fragrance fling. 

Where’er the oak’s thick branches stretch 
A broader, browner shade, 

Where’er the rude and moss-grown beech 
O’er-canopies the glade, 

Beside some water’s rushy brink 
With me the Muse shall sit, and think 
(At ease reclined in rustic state) 

How vain the ardor of the crowd, 

How low, how little are the proud, 

How indigent the great! 

Still is the toiling hand of‘Care; 

The panting herds repose: 

Yet hark, how thro’ the peopled air 
The busy murmur glows! 

The insect youth are on the wing, 

Eager to taste the honey’d spring 
And float amid the liquid noon : 

Some lightly o’er the current skim, 

Some show their gayly-gilded trim 
Quick-glancing to the sun. 

To Contemplation’s sober eye 
Such is the race of man; 

And they that creep, and they that fly 
Shall end where they began. 

Alike the busy and the gay 
But flutter thro’ life’s little day, 

In Fortune’s varying colors drest: 
Brush’d by the hand of rough Mischance 
Or chill’d by Age, their airy dance 
They leave, in dust to rest. 

Methinks I hear in accents low 
The sportive kind reply: 

Poor moralist ! and what art thou? 

A solitary fly! 

Thy joys no glittering female meets, 

No hive hast thou of hoarded sweets, 


No painted plumage to display: 
On hasty wings thy youth is flown ; 
Thy sun is set, thy spring is gone— 
We frolic while ’tis May. 

Thomas Gray. 


Spring. 

Spring, the sweet spring, is the year’s 
pleasant king; 

Then blooms each thing, then maids dance 
in a ring. 

Cold doth not sting, the pretty birds do 
sing, 

Cuckoo, jug-jug, pu-we, to-witta-woo! 

The palm and may make country houses 

gay, 

Lambs frisk and play, the shepherds pipe 
all day, 

And we hear aye birds tune this merry 
lay, 

Cuckoo, jug-jug, pu-we, to-witta-woo! 

The fields breathe sweet, the daisies kiss 
our feet, 

Young lovers meet, old wives a-sunning 
sit, 

In every street these tunes our ears do 
greet, 

Cuckoo, jug-jug, pu-we, to-witta-woo! 

Spring ! the sweet spring! 

Thomas Nash. 

Song. On Ma y Morning. 

Now the bright morning star, day’s har¬ 
binger, 

Comes dancing from the east, and leads 
with her 

The flowery May, who from her green lap 
throws 

The yellow cowslip and the pale prim¬ 
rose. 

Hail, bounteous May, that doth inspire 

Mirth, and youth, and warm desire! 

Woods and groves are of thy dressing, 

Hill and dale doth boast thy blessing. 

Thus we salute thee with our early song, 

And welcome thee, and wish thee long. 

John Milton. 







FIRESIDE ENCYCLOPAEDIA OF POETRY. 


m 


Song to May. 

May ! queen of blossoms 
And fulfilling flowers, 

With what pretty music 

Shall we charm the hours ? 

Wilt thou have pipe and reed, 

Blown in the open mead? 

Or to the lute give heed 
In the green bowers ? 

Thou hast no need of us, 

Or pipe or wire, 

That hast the golden bee 
Ripen’d with fire; 

And many thousand more 
Songsters, that thee adore, 

Filling earth’s grassy floor 
With new desire. 

Thou hast thy mighty herds, 

Tame, and free livers; 

Doubt not, thy music too 
In the deep rivers ; 

And the w r hole plumy flight, 

Warbling the day and night— 

Up at the gates of light, 

See, the lark quivers! 

When with the jacinth 

Coy fountains are tress’d : 

And for the mournful bird 
Green woods are dress’d, 

That did for Tereus pine; 

Then shall our songs be thine, 

To whom our hearts incline: 

May, be thou bless’d ! 

Lord Thurlow. 

Sonnet. 

May. 

When May is in his prime, and youthful 
Spring 

Doth clothe the tree with leaves and 
ground with flowers, 

And time of year reviveth everything, 

And lovely Nature smiles, and nothing 
low r ers; 

Then Philomela most doth strain her 
breast 

With night-complaints, and sits in little 
rest. 


This bird’s estate I may compare with 
mine, 

To whom fond Love doth work such 
wrongs by day, 

That in the night my heart must needs re¬ 
pine, 

And storm with sighs to ease me as I 
may; 

Whilst others are becalm’d or lie them 
still, 

Or sail secure with tide and wind at 
will. 

And as all those which hear this bird com¬ 
plain, 

Conceive in all her tunes a sw r eet de¬ 
light, 

Without remorse or pitying her pain; 

So she, for w r hom I w r ail both day and 
night, 

Doth sport herself in hearing my com¬ 
plaint ; 

A just rew'ard for serving such a saint! 

Thomas Watson. 

COR INNA'S GOING a-Maying. 

Get up, get up, for shame! the blooming 
mom 

Upon her wings presents the god unshorn. 

See how Aurora throws her fair 

Fresh-quilted colors through the air ! 

Get up, sweet slug-a-bed, and see 

The dew bespangling herb and tree. 

Each flower has wept and bow r ’d toward 
the east, 

Above an hour since, yet you not drest— 

Nay, not so much as out of bed, 

When all the birds have matins said, 

And sung their thankful hymns: ’tis 
sin, 

Nay, profanation, to keep in, 

Wlienas a thousand virgins on this day 

Spring sooner than the lark to fetch in 
May. 

Rise, and put on your foliage, and be seen 

To come forth, like the spring-time, fresh 
and green, 

And sweet as Flora. Take no care 

For jewels for your gown or hair : 

Fear not, the leaves will strew 
I Gems in abundance upon you ; 





POEMS OF NATURE. 


437 


Besides, the childhood of the day has kept, 

Against you come, some orient pearls un¬ 
wept. 

Come, and receive them while the light 
Hangs on the dew-locks of the night; 
And Titan on the eastern hill 
Retires himself, or else stands still 

Till you come forth. Wash, dress, be brief 
in praying: 

Few beads are best, when once we go a- 
Maying. 

Come, my Corinna, come! and, coming, 
mark 

How each field turns a street, each street 
a park 

Made green and trimm’d with trees ; see 
how 

Devotion gives each house a bough 
Or branch; each porch, each door, ere 
this 

An ark, a tabernacle is, 

Made up of white thorn neatly inter¬ 
wove, 

As if here were those cooler shades of 
love. 

Can such delights be in the street 
And open fields, and we not see ’t ? 
Come ! we’ll abroad, and let’s obey 
The proclamation made for May ; 

And sin no more, as we have done, by 
staying, 

But, my Corinna, come! let’s go a-May- 
ing. 

There’s not a budding boy or girl, this 

day, 

But is got up, and gone to bring in May. 

A deal of youth, ere this, is come 
Back, and with white thorn laden 
home. 

Some have despatch’d their cakes and 
cream 

Before that we have left to dream ; 

And some have wept and woo’d and 
plighted troth, 

And chose their priest, ere we can cast olf 
sloth. 

Many a green gown has been given ; 
Many a kiss, both odd and even ; 

Many a glance, too, has been sent 
From out the eye, love’s firmament; 


Many a jest told of the key’s betraying 
This night, and locks pick’d: yet w’ are 
not a-Maying. 

Come! let us go while we are in our 
prime, 

And take the harmless folly of the time : 
We shall grow old apace, and die 
Before we know our liberty. 

Our life is short, and our days run 
As fast away as does the sun ; 

And as a vapor, or a drop of rain 
Once lost, can ne’er be found again, 

So when or you or I are made 
A fable, song, or fleeting shade, 

All love, all liking, all delight 
Lies drown’d with us in endless night. 
Then, while time serves, and we are but 
decaying, 

Come, my Corinna, come ! let’s go a-May¬ 
ing. 

Robert Herrick. 

Summer Longings. 

Las mananas floridas 
He Abril y Mayo. 

Calderon. 

Ah ! my heart is weary waiting— 
Waiting for the May— 

Waiting for the pleasant rambles, 

Where the fragrant hawthorn brambles, 
With the woodbine alternating, 

Scent the dewy way. 

Ah ! my heart is weary waiting— 
Waiting for the May. 

Ah! my heart is sick with longing, 
Longing for the May— 

Longing to escape from study, 

To the young face fair and ruddy, 

And the thousand charms belonging 
To the summer’s day. 

Ah ! my heart is sick with longing, 
Longing for the May. 

Ah ! my heart is sore with sighing, 
Sighing for the May— 

Sighing for their sure returning, 

When the summer beams are burning, 
Hopes and flowers that, dead or dying, 
All the winter lay. 

Ah ! my heart is sore with sighing, 
Sighing for the May. 






438 


FIRESIDE ENCYCLOPAEDIA OF POETRY. 


Ah ! my heart is pain’d with throbbing, 
Throbbing for the May— 

Throbbing for the seaside billows, 

Or the water-wooing willows; 

Where, in laughing and in sobbing, 
Glide the streams away. 

Ah ! my heart, my heart is throbbing, 
Throbbing for the May. 

Waiting sad, dejected, weary, 

Waiting for the May : 

Spring goes by with wasted warnings— 
Moonlit evenings, sunbright mornings— 

Summer comes, yet dark and dreary 
Life still ebbs away; 

Man is ever weary, weary, 

Waiting for the May! 

Denis Florence McCarthy. 


Of Solitude. 

Hail, old patrician trees, so great and 
good! 

Hail, ye plebeian underwood ! 

Where the poetic birds rejoice, 

And for their quiet nests and plenteous 
food 

Pay with their grateful voice. 

Hail the poor Muse’s richest manor-seat! 
Ye country-houses and retreat, 

Which all the happy gods so love, 

That for you oft they quit their bright and 
great 

Metropolis above. 

Here Nature does a house for me erect, 
Nature! the fairest architect, 

Who those fond artists does despise 
That can the fair and living trees neg¬ 
lect, 

Yet the dead timber prize. 

Here let me, careless and unthoughtful 

lying, 

Hear the soft winds above me flying, 

With all their wanton boughs dispute, 
And the more tuneful birds to both reply¬ 
ing, 

Nor be myself, too, mute. 


I A silver stream shall roll his waters near, 
Gilt with the sunbeams here and there, 

On whose enamell’d bank I’ll walk, 

And see how prettily they smile, 

And hear how prettily they talk. 

Ah ! wretched, and too solitary he, 

Who loves not his own company ! 

He’ll feel the weight of’t many a day, 
Unless he calls in sin or vanity 
To help to bear’t away. 

Oh, Solitude ! first state of humankind! 
Which bless’d remain’d till man did find 
Even his own helper’s company, 

As soon as two, alas! together join’d, 

The serpent made up three. 

I Though God himself, through countless 
ages, thee 

His sole companion chose to be, 

Thee, sacred Solitude ! alone, 

Before the branchy head of number’s tree 
Sprang from the trunk of one; 

Thou (though men think thine an un¬ 
active part) 

Dost break and tame th’ unruly heart, 
Which else would know no settled pace. 
Making it move, well managed by thy art. 
With swiftness and with grace. 

Thou the faint beams of reason’s scatter’d 
light 

Dost, like a burning-glass, unite, 

Dost multiply the feeble heat, 

And fortify the strength, till thou dost 
bright 

And noble fires beget. 

Whilst this hard truth I teach, methinks I 
see 

The monster London laugh at me; 

I should at thee, too, foolish city! 

If I were fit to laugh at misery; 

But thy estate I pity. 

Let but thy wicked men from out thee go, 
And all the fools that crowd thee so, 

Even thou, who dost thy millions boast, 
A village less than Islington wilt grow, 

A solitude almost. 

Abraham Cowley. 











POEMS OF NATURE. 


439 


Tiie First Spring Da y. 

Hut one short week ago the trees were 
bare; 

And winds were keen, and violets pinched 
with frost; 

Winter was with us; but the larches tossed 

Lightly their crimson buds, and here and 
there 

Rooks cawed. To-day the Spring is in the 
air 

And in the blood: sweet sun-gleams come 
and go 

Upon the hills; in lanes the wild flowers 
blow, 

And tender leaves are bursting everywhere. 

About the hedge the small birds peer and 
dart, 

Each bush is full of amorous flutterings 

And little rapturous cries. The thrush 
apart 

Sits throned, and loud his ripe contralto 
rings. 

Music is on the wind,—and, in my heart, 

Infinite love for all created things. 

John Todhunter. 

Lines, 

Written in Early Spring. 

I heard a thousand blended notes, 

While in a grove I sate reclined, 

In that sweet mood when pleasant thoughts 
Bring sad thoughts to the mind. 

To her fair works did Nature link 
The human soul that through me ran ; 

And much it grieved my heart to think 
What man has made of man. 

Through primrose tufts, in that sweet 
bower, 

The periwinkle trailed its wreaths ; 

And ’tis my faith that every flower 
Enjoys the air it breathes. 

The birds around me hopped and played; 
Their thoughts I cannot measure:— 

But the least motion which they made, 

It seemed a thrill of pleasure. 

The budding twigs spread out their fan, 

To catch the breezy air; 


t And I must think, do all I can, 

* That there was pleasure there. 

From heaven if this belief be sent, 

If such be Nature’s holy plan, 

Have I not reason to lament 
What man has made of man ? 

William Wordsworth. 


After a Summer Shower. 

The rain is o’er. How dense and bright 
Yon pearly clouds reposing lie! 

Cloud above cloud, a glorious sight, 
Contrasting with the dark blue sky! 

! In grateful silence earth receives 

The general blessing; fresh and fair, 

Each flower expands its little leaves, 

As glad the common joy to share. 

The softened ‘sunbeams pour around 
A fairy light, uncertain, pale; 

The wind flows cool; the scented ground 
Is breathing odors on the gale. 

Mid yon rich clouds’ voluptuous pile, 
Methinks some spirit of the air 
: Might rest, to gaze below a while, 

Then turn to bathe and revel there. 

The sun breaks forth ; from off the scene 
Its floating veil of mist is flung; 

And all the wilderness of green 
With trembling drops of light is hung. 

Now gaze on Nature,—yet the same,— 
Glowing with life, by breezes fanned, 

Luxuriant, lovely, as she came, 

Fresh in her youth, from God’s own hand. 

Hear the rich music of that voice, 

"Which sounds from all below, above; 

She calls her children to rejoice, 

And round them throws her arms of love. 

Drink in her influence; low-born care, 
And all the train of mean desire, 

Refuse to breathe this holy air, 

And ’mid this living light expire. 

Andrews Norton. 










440 


FIRESIDE ENCYCLOPEDIA OF POETRY. 


Spring. 

Spring, with that nameless pathos in the 
air 

Which dwells wdth all things fair, 

Spring, with her golden suns and silver 
rain, 

Is with us once again. 

Out in the lonely woods the jasmine burns 
Its fragrant lamps, and turns 
Into a royal court with green festoons 
The banks of dark lagoons. 

In the deep heart of every forest tree 
The blood is all aglee, 

And there’s a look about the leafless bowers 
As if they dreamed of flowers. 

Yet still on every side we trace the hand 
Of Winter in the land, 

Save where the maple reddens on the lawn, 
Flushed by the season’s dawn; 

Or where, like those strange semblances we 
find 

That age to childhood bind, 

The elm puts on, as if in Nature’s scorn, 
The brown of autumn corn. 

As yet the turf is dark, although you know 
That, not a span below, 

A thousand germs are groping through the 
gloom, 

And soon will burst their tomb. 

In gardens you may note amid the dearth, 
The crocus breaking earth ; 

And near the snowdrop’s tender white and 
green, 

The violet in its screen. 

But many gleams and shadows need must 
pass 

Along the budding grass, 

And w T eeks go by, before the enamored 
South 

Shall kiss the rose’s mouth. 

Still, there’s a sense of blossoms yet unborn 
In the sweet airs of morn ; 

One almost looks to see the very street 
Grow purple at his feet. 


At times a fragrant breeze comes floating 

ky, 

And brings, you know not why, 

A feeling as when eager crowds await 
Before a palace-gate 

Some wondrous pageant ; and you scarce 
would start, 

If from a beech’s heart 
A blue-eyed Dryad, stepping forth, should 
say, 

“ Behold me! I am May!” 

Henry Timrod. 


The Airs of Spring. 

Sweetly breathing, vernal air, 

That with kind warmth doth repair 
Winter’s ruins; from whose breast 
All the gums and spice of th’ East 
Borrow their perfumes; whose eye 
Gilds the morn, and clears the sky; 
Whose dishevelled tresses shed 
Pearls upon the violet bed; 

On whose brow, with calm smiles drest, 
The halcyon sits and builds her nest; 
Beauty, youth, and endless spring, 
Dwell upon thy rosy wing! 

Thou, if stormy Boreas throws 
Down whole forests when he blows, 
With a pregnant, flowery birth, 

Canst refresh the teeming earth. 

If he nip the early bud; 

If he blast what’s fair or good ; 

If he scatter our choice flowers; 

If he shake our halls or bowers; 

If his rude breath threaten us,— 

Thou canst stroke great iEolus, 

And from him the grace obtain, 

To bind him in an iron chain. 

Thomas Carew. 


Song to May. 

Born in yon blaze of orient sky, 

Sweet May ! thy radiant form unfold, 
Unclose thy blue voluptuous eye, 

And wave thy shadowy locks of gold. 







POEMS OF NATURE. 


44 J 


For thee the fragrant zephyrs blow, 

For thee descends the sunny shower; 
The rills in softer murmurs flow, 

And brighter blossoms gem the bower. 

Light graces decked in flowery wreaths, 
And tiptoe joys their hands combine; 
And Love his sweet contagion breathes, 
And, laughing, dances round thy shrine. 

Warm with new life, the glittering throng 
On quivering fin and rustling wing, 
Delighted join their votive song, 

And hail thee Goddess of the Spring! 

Erasmus Darwin. 

The Reign of May. 

I feel a newer life in every gale; 

The winds that fan the flowers. 

And with their welcome breathings fill the 
sail, 

Tell of serener hours,— 

Of hours that glide unfelt away 
Beneath the sky of May. 

The spirit of the gentle south wind calls 
From his blue throne of air, 

And where his whispering voice in music 
falls, 

Beauty is budding there; 

The bright ones of the valley break 
Their slumbers, and awake. 

The waving verdure rolls along the plain, 
And the wide forest weaves, 

To welcome back its playful mates again, 
A canopy of leaves; 

And from its darkening shadow floats 
A gush of trembling notes. 

Fairer and brighter spreads the reign of 
May; 

The tresses of the woods 
With the light dallying of the west wind 
play; 

And the full-brimming floods, 

As gladly to their goal they run, 

• Hail the returning sun. 

James Gates Peecival. 


July. 

Loud is the Summer’s busy song, 

The smallest breeze can find a tongue, 
i While insects of each tiny size 
' Grow teasing with their melodies, 

! Till noon burps with its blistering breath 
Around, and day lies still as death. 

The busy noise of man and brute 
Is on a sudden lost and mute; 

Even the brook that leaps along, 

Seems weary of its bubbling song, 

And, so soft its waters creep. 

Tired silence sinks in sounder sleep; 

The cricket on its bank is dumb; 

The very flies forget to hum; 

And, save the wagon rocking round, 

The landscape sleeps without a sound. 

The breeze is stopped, the lazy bough 
Hath not a leaf that danceth now; 

The taller grass upon the hill, 

And spider’s threads, are standing still; 
The feathers, dropped from moorhen’s wing 
Which to the water’s surface cling, 

Are steadfast, and as heavy seem 
As stones beneath them in the stream ; 

Hawkweed and groundsel’s fanny downs 
Unruffled keep their seedy crowns; 

And in the overheated air 

Not one light thing is floating there, 

Save that to the earnest eye 

The restless heat seems twittering by. 

Noon swoons beneath the heat it made, 
And flowers e’en within the shade; 

Until the sun slopes in the west, 

Like weary traveller, glad to rest 
On pillowed clouds of many hues. 

Then Nature’s voice its joy renews, 

And checkered field and grassy plain 
Hum with their summer songs again, 

A requiem to the day’s decline, 

Whose setting sunbeams coolly shine 
As welcome to day’s feeble powers 
As falling dews to thirsty flowers. 

John Clare. 






FIRESIDE ENCYCLOPAEDIA OF POETRY. 


442 


Sonnet. 

Summer. 

The Summer, the divinest Summer burns, 
The skies are bright with azure and 
with gold, 

The mavis and the nightingale by turns 
Amid the woods a soft enchantment 
hold: 

The dowering woods, with glory and de¬ 
light, 

Their tender leaves unto the air have 
spread; 

The wanton air, amid their alleys bright, 
Doth softly dy, and a light fragrance 
shed: 

The nymphs within the silver fountains 
play, 

The angels on the golden banks recline, 

Wherein great Flora, in her bright array, 
Hath sprinkled her ambrosial sweets 
divine: 

Or, else, I gaze upon that beauteous face, 

0 Amoret! and think these sweets have 
place. 

Lord Thurlow. 

Whisper / 

You saucy south wind, setting all the 
budded beech boughs swinging 
Above the wood anemones that flatter, 
flushed and white, 

When far across the wide salt waves your 
quick way you were winging, 

Oh! tell me, tell me, did you pass my 
sweetheart’s ship last night? 

Ah ! let the daisies be, 

South wind! and answer me: 

Did you my sailor see? 

Wind, whisper very low, 

For none but you must know 
I love my lover so. 

You’ve come by many a gorsy hill, your 
breath has sweetness in it, 

You’ve ruffled up the high white clouds 
that fleck the shining blue; 

You’ve rushed and danced and whirled, so 
now perhaps you’ll spare a minute, 
To tell me whether you have seen my 
lover brave and true? 


Wind, answer me, I pray. 

I’m lonelier every day 
My Jove is far away; 

And, sweet wind, whisper low, 
For none but you must know 
l love my lover so. 

Frances Wynne. 


Re ve du Midi. 

When o’er the mountain-steeps 
The hazy noontide creeps, 

And the shrill cricket sleeps 
Under the grass; 

When soft the shadows lie, 

And clouds sail o’er the sky, 

And the idle winds go by 
With the heavy scent of blossoms as they 
pass— 

Then, when the silent stream 
Lapses as in a dream, 

And the water-lilies gleam 
Up to the sun; 

When the hot and burden’d day 
Rests on its downward way, 

When the moth forgets to play 
And the plodding ant may dream her work 
is done— 

Then, from the noise of war 
And the din of earth afar, 

Like some forgotten star 
Dropt from the sky— 

The sounds of love and fear, 

All voices sad and clear, 

Banish’d to silence drear— 

The willing thrall of trances sweet I 
lie. 

Some melancholy gale 
Breathes its mysterious tale, 

Till the rose’s lips grow pale 
With her sighs; 

And o’er my thoughts are cast 
Tints of the vanish’d past, 

Glories that faded fast, 

Renew’d to splendor in my dreaming 
eyes. 








POEMS OF NATURE. 


443 


As poised on vibrant wings, 

Where its sweet treasure swings, 

The honey-lover clings 
To the red flowers; 

So, lost in vivid light, 

80, rapt from day and night, 

I linger in delight, 

Enraptured o’er the vision-freighted hours. 

Rose Terry Cooke. 

A Nocturnal Reverie. 

In such a night, when every louder wind 

Is to its distant cavetn safe confined, 

And only gentle Zephyr fans his wings, 

And lonely Philomel still waking sings; 

Or from some tree, famed for the owl’s de¬ 
light, 

She, holloaing clear, directs the wanderer 
right: 

In such a night, when passing clouds give 
place, 

Or thinly veil the heavens’ mysterious face; 

When in some river overhung with green 

The waving moon and trembling leaves are 
seen; 

When freshen’d grass now bears itself up¬ 
right, 

And makes cool banks to pleasing rest in¬ 
vite, 

Whence springs the woodbine, and the 
bramble rose, 

And where the sleepy cowslip shelter’d 
grows; 

Whilst now a paler hue the foxglove takes, j 

Yet checkers still with red the dusky 
brakes; 

When scatter’d glow-worms, but in twi¬ 
light fine, 

Show trivial beauties, watch their hour to 
shine; 

Whilst Salisbury stands the test of every 
light, 

In perfect charms and perfect virtue 
bright; 

When odors which declined repelling day 

Through temperate air uninterrupted stray; 

When darken’d groves their softest shad¬ 
ows wear, 

And falling waters we distinctly hear; 

When through the gloom more venerable 
shows 

Some ancient fabric, awful in repose; i 


While sunburnt hills their swarthy looks 
conceal, 

And swelling haycocks thicken up the 
vale; 

When the loosed horse now, as his pasture 
leads, 

Comes slowly grazing through the adjoin¬ 
ing meads, 

Whose stealing pace and lengthen’d shade 
we fear, 

Till torn-up forage in his teeth we hear; 

When nibbling sheep at large pursue their 
food, 

And unmolested kiue rechew the cud; 

When curlews cry beneath the village 
walls, 

And to her straggling brood the partridge 
calls; 

Their short - lived jubilee the creatures 
keep, 

Which but endures whilst tyrant man does 
sleep; 

When a sedate content the spirit feels, 

And no fierce light disturbs, whilst it re¬ 
veals; 

But silent musings urge the mind to seek 

Something too high for syllables to speak; 

Till the free soul to a composedness 
charm’d, 

Finding the elements of rage disarm’d, 

O’er all below a solemn quiet grown, 

Joys in the inferior world, and thinks it 
like her own: 

In such a night let me abroad remain, 

Till morning breaks, and all’s confused 
again; 

Our cares, our toils, our clamors are re¬ 
new’d, 

Our pleasures, seldom reach’d, again pur¬ 
sued. 

Anne, Countess of Winchei.sea. 


Midsummer. 

Around the lovely valley rise 
The purple hills of Paradise. 

0, softly on yon banks of haze 
Her rosy face the Summer lays! 

Becalmed along the azure sky. 
The argosies of cloudland lie. 





444 


FIRESIDE ENCYCLOPAEDIA OF POETRY. 


Whose shores, with many a shining rift, 
Far-off their pearl-white peaks uplift. 

Through all the long midsummer day 
The meadow-sides are sweet with hay. 

I seek the coolest sheltered seat 
Just where the field and forest meet,— 
Where grow the pine-trees tall and bland, 
The ancient oaks austere and grand, 

And fringy roots and pebbles fret 
The ripples of the rivulet. 

I watch the mowers as they go 
Through the tall grass, a white-sleeved row; 
With even strokes their scythes they swing, 
In tune their merry whetstones ring; 
Behind the nimble youngsters run 
And toss the thick swaths in the sun ; 

The cattle graze; while, warm and still, 
Slopes the broad pasture, basks the hill, 
And bright, when summer breezes break, 
The green wheat crinkles like a lake. 

The butterfly and bumble-bee 
Come to the pleasant woods with me; 
Quickly before me runs the quail, 

The chickens skulk behind the rail, 

High up the lone wood-pigeon sits, 

And the woodpecker pecks and flits. 

Sweet woodland music sinks and swells, 
The brooklet rings its tinkling bells, 

The swarming insects drone and hum, 

The partridge beats his throbbing drum, 
The squirrel leaps among the boughs, 

And chatters in his leafy house, 

The oriole flashes by; and, look ! 

Into the mirror of the brook, 

Where the vain blue-bird trims his coat, 
Two tiny feathers fall and float, 

As silently, as tenderly, 

The down of peace descends on me. 

Oh, this is peace! I have no need 
Of friend to talk, of book to read: 

A dear Companion here abides ; 

Close to my thrilling heart He hides; 

The holy silence is His voice: 

I lie and listen, and rejoice. 

John Townsend Trowbridge. 

Birds. 

The woosel-cock, so black of hue, 

With orange-tawny bill, 


The throstle with his note so true, 

The wren with little quill; 

The finch, the sparrow, and the lark, 

The plain-song cuckoo gray, 

Whose note full many a man doth mark, 
And dares not answer, nay. 

William Shakespeare. 


TO A UTUMN. 

Season of mists and mellow fruitfulness ! 

Close bosom-friend of the maturing 
sun! 

Conspiring with him how to load and 
bless 

With fruit the vines that round the 
thatch-eaves run— 

To bend with apples the moss’d cottage 
trees, 

And fill all fruit with ripeness to the 
core— 

To swell the gourd, and plump the 
hazel-shells 

With a sweet kernel—to set budding 
more, 

And still more, later flowers for the bees, 

Until they think warm days will never 

cease, 

For Summer has o’er-brimm’d their 
clammy cells. 

Who hath not seen thee oft amid thy 
store ? 

Sometimes whoever seeks abroad may 
find 

Thee sitting careless on a granary-floor, 

Thy hair soft-lifted by the winnowing 
wind; 

Or on a half-reap’d furrow sound asleep, 

Drowsed with the fume of poppies, 
while thy hook 

Spares the next swath and all its 
twined flowers; 

And sometime like a gleaner thou dost 
keep 

Steady thy laden head across a brook; 

Or by a cider-press, with patient look, 

Thou watchest the last uozings. hours 
by hours. 






POEMS OF NATURE. 


445 


Where are the songs of Spring? Ay, 
where are they? 

Think not of them—thou hast thy music 
too, 

While barrfed clouds bloom the soft-dying 
day, 

And touch the stubble-plains with rosy 
hue; 

Then in a wailful choir the small gnats 
mourn 

Among the river-sallows, borne aloft 
Or sinking, as the light wind lives or 
dies ; 

And full-grown lambs loud bleat from 
hilly bourn; 

Hedge-crickets sing; and now with 
treble soft 

The red-breast whistles from a garden- 
croft, 

And gathering swallows twitter in the 
skies. 

John Keats. 

A UTU3IN. 

A Dirge. 

The warm sun is failing, the bleak wind is 
wailing, 

The bare boughs are sighing, the pale 
flowers are dying, 

And the year 

On the earth her deathbed, in a shroud of 
leaves dead, 

Is lying. 

Come, months, come away, 

From November to May, 

In your saddest array; 

Follow the bier 
Of the dead cold year. 

And like dim shadows watch by her 
sepulchre. 

The chill rain is tailing, the nipt worm is 
crawling, 

The rivers are swelling, the thunder is 
knelling 

For the year; 

The blithe swallows are flown, and the 
lizards each gone 

To his dwelling; 

Come, months, come away, 

' Put on white, black, and gray, 

Let your light sisters play— 


Ye follow the bier 
Of the dead cold year, 

And make her grave green with tear on 
tear. 

Percy Bysshe Shelley. 


Ode to the West Wind. 

i. 

O wild West Wind, thou breath of au¬ 
tumn’s being, 

Thou from whose unseen presence the 
leaves dead 

Are driven, like ghosts from an enchanter 
fleeing, 

Yellow, and black, and pale, and hectic 
red, 

Pestilence-stricken multitudes : O thou 

Who chariotest to their dark wintry bed 

The wingfed seeds, where they lie cold and 
low, 

Each like a corpse within its grave, until 

Thine azure sister of the spring shall 
blow 

Her clarion o’er the dreaming earth, and 
fill 

(Driving sweet buds like flocks to feed in 
air) 

With living hues and odors plain and hill: 

Wild spirit, which art moving everywhere ; 

Destroyer and preserver; hear, oh hear! 

ii. 

Thou on whose stream, ’mid the steep sky’s 
commotion, 

Loose clouds like earth’s decaying leaves 
are shed, 

Shook from the tangled boughs of heaven 
and ocean, 

Angels of rain and lightning; there are 
spread 

On the blue surface of thine airy surge, 

Like the bright hair uplifted from the head 

Of some fierce Maenad, even from the dim 
verge 

Of the horizon to the zenith’s height, 

The locks of the approaching storm. Thou 
dirge 








ft RESIDE ENCYCLOPAEDIA OF POETRY 


44<; 


Of the dying year, to which this closing 
night 

Will be the dome of a vast sepulchre, 
Vaulted with all thy congregated might 

Of vapors, from whose solid atmosphere 
Black rain and fire and hail will hurst: oh 
hear! 

HI. 

Thou who didst waken from his summer 
dreams 

The blue Mediterranean, where he lay 
Lull’d by the coil of his crystalline streams 

Beside a pumice isle in Baiae’s bay, 

And saw in sleep old palaces and towers 
Quivering within the wave’s intenser day, 

All overgrown with azure moss and flowers 
So sweet, the sense faints picturing them ! 
Thou 

For whose path the Atlantic’s level powers 

Cleave themselves into chasms, while far 
below 

The sea-blooms and the oozy woods which 
wear 

The sapless foliage of the ocean know 

Thy voice, and suddenly grow gray with 
fear, 

And tremble, and despoil themselves : oh 
hear! 

IV. 

If I were a dead leaf thou mightest bear; 
If I were a swift cloud to fly with thee; 

A wave to pant beneath thy power, and 
share 

The impulse of thy strength, only less free 
Than thou, O uncontrollable ! if even 
I were as in my boyhood, and could be 

The comrade of thy wanderings over 
heaven, 

As then, when to outstrip the skyey speed 
Scarce seem’d a vision, I would ne’er have 
striven 

As thus with thee in prayer in my sore 
need. 

Oh, lift me as a wave, a leaf, a cloud! 

I fall upon the thorns of life ! I bleed ! 


A heavy weight of hours has chain’d and 
bow’d 

One too like thee : tameless and swift and 
proud. 

v. 

Make me thy lyre, even as the forest is : 

What if my leaves are falling like its own! 

The tumult of thy mighty harmonies 

Will take from both a deep autumnal tone, 

Sweet though in sadness. Be thou, spirit 
fierce, 

My spirit! be thou me, impetuous one! 

Drive my dead thoughts over the universe 

Like wither’d leaves to quicken a new 
birth; 

And, by the incantation of this verse, 

Scatter, as from an unextinguish’d hearth 

Ashes and sparks, my words among man¬ 
kind ! 

Be through my lips to unawaken’d earth 

The trumpet of a prophecy! O wind, 

If winter comes, can spring be far behind? 

Percy Bysshe Shelley. 


The First Snow-fall. 

The snow had begun in the gloaming, 
And busily all the night 

Had been heaping field and highway 
With a silence deep and white. 

Every pine and fir and hemlock 
Wore ermine too dear for an earl, 

And the poorest twig on the elm tree 
Was ridged inch-deep with pearl. 

From sheds new-roof’d with Carrara 
Came Chanticleer’s muffled crow, 

The stiff rails were soften’d to swan’s-down 
And still flutter’d down the snow. 

I stood and watch’d by the window 
The noiseless work of the sky, 

And the sudden flurries of snow-birds, 
Like brown leaves whirling by. 

I thought of a mound in sweet Auburn 
Where a little headstone stood; 

How the flakes were folding it gently, 

As did robins the babes in the wood. 












POEMS OF NATURE. 


44 ; 


Up spoke our own little Mabel, 

Saying, “ Father, who makes it snow?” 
And I told of the good All-father 
Who cares for us here below. 

Again I look’d at the snow-fall, 

And thought of the leaden sky 
That arch’d o’er our first great sorrow, 
When that mound was heap’d so high. 

I remember’d the gradual patience 
That fell from that cloud like snow, 
Flake by flake, healing and hiding 
The scar of our deep-plunged woe. 

And again to the child I whisper’d, 

“ The snow that husheth all. 

Darling, the merciful Father 
Alone can make it fall!” 

Then, with eyes that saw not, I kiss’d 
her; 

And she, kissing back, could not know 
That my kiss was given to her sister, 
Folded close under deepening snow. 

James Russell Lowell. 


When Icicles Hang by the 
Wall. 

When icicles hang by the wall 
And Dick the shepherd blows his nail, 
And Tom bears logs into the hall, 

And milk comes frozen home in pail, 
When blood is nipp’d, and ways be foul, i 
Then nightly sings the staring owl, 

To-who; 

Tu-whit, to-who, a merry note, 

While greasy Joan doth keel the pot. 

When all aloud the wind doth blow, 

And coughing drowns the parson’s saw, 
And birds sit brooding in the snow, 

And Marian’s nose looks red and raw, 
When roasted crabs hiss in the bowl, 

Then nightly sings the staring owl, 

To-who; 

Tu-whit, to-who, a merry note, 

While greasy Joan doth keel the pot. 

William Shakespeake. 


Blow, Blow, thou Winter Wind . 

Blow, blow, thou winter wind, 

Thou art not so unkind 
As man’s ingratitude; 

Thy tooth is not so keen, 

Because thou art not seen, 

Although thy breath be rude. 

Heigh-ho ! sing heigh-ho ! unto the green 
holly: 

Most friendship is feigning, most loving 
mere folly: 

Then, heigh-ho! the holly ! 

This life is most jolly! 

Freeze, freeze, thou bitter sky, 

Thou dost not bite so nigh 
As benefits forgot: 

Though thou the waters warp, 

Thy sting is not so sharp 
As friend remember’d not. 

Heigh-ho! sing heigh-ho! unto the green 
holly: 

Most friendship is feigning, most loving 
mere folly: 

Then, heigh-ho! the holly! 

This life is most jolly! 

William Shakespeake. 


The Death of the Old Year. 

Full knee-deep lies the winter snow, 

And the winter winds are wearily sigh¬ 
ing: 

Toll ye the church-bell sad and slow, 

And tread softly and speak low, 

For the Old year lies a-dying. 

Old year, you must not die; 

You came to us so readily, 

You lived with us so steadily, 

Old year, you shall not die. 

He lieth still: he doth not move : 

He will not see the dawn of day. 

He hath no other life above. 

He gave me a friend, and a true true-love, 
And the New year will take ’em away. 
Old year, you must not go; 

So long as you have been with us, 
Such joy as you have seen with us. 
Old year, you shall not go. 









448 


FIRESIDE ENCYCLOPAEDIA OF POETR V. 


He froth’d his bumpers to the brim ; 

A jollier year we shall not see. 

But though his eyes are waxing dim, 

And though his foes speak ill of him, 

He was a friend to me. 

Old year, you shall not die; 

We did so laugh and cry with you, 
I’ve half a mind to die with you, 
Old year, if you must die. 

He was full of joke and jest, 

But all his merry quips are o’er. 

To see him die, across the waste 
His son and heir doth ride post-haste, 

But he’ll be dead before. 

Every one for his own. 

The night is starry and cold, my 
friend, 

And the New year blithe and bold, 
my friend, 

Comes up to take his own. 

How hard he breathes ! Over the snow 
I heard just now the crowing cock. 

The shadow's flicker to and fro: 

The cricket chirps: the light burns low: 
’Tis nearly twelve o’clock. 

Shake hands before you die. 

Old year, we’ll dearly rue for you: 
What is it we can do for you? 

Speak out before you die. 

His face is growing sharp and thin. 

Alack ! our friend is gone. 

Close up his eyes: tie up his chin : 

Step from the corpse and let him in 
That standeth there alone, 

And waiteth at the door. 

There’s a new 7 foot on the floor, my 
friend, 

And a new face at the door, my 
friend, 

A new 7 face at the door. 

Alfred Tennyson. 


Morning. 

Hark —hark! the lark at heaven’s gate 
sings, 

And Phoebus ’gins arise, 

His steeds to water at those springs 
On chaliced flow r ers that lies : 


And winking Mary-buds begin 
To ope their golden eyes; 

With everything that pretty bin, 

My lady sweet, arise ; 

Arise, arise! 

William Shakespeare. 


Sonnet. 

Full many a glorious morning have T 

seen 

Flatter the mountain-tops with sov¬ 
ereign eye, 

Kissing with golden face the meadows 
green, 

Gilding pale streams with heavenly al¬ 
chemy ; 

Anon permit the basest clouds to ride 
With ugly rack on his celestial face, 

And from the forlorn world his visage hide, 
Stealing unseen to west with this dis¬ 
grace. 

Even so my sun one early morn did shine, 
With all triumphant splendor on my 
brow ; 

But out, alack! he w 7 as but one hour 
mine, 

The region cloud hath mask’d him from 
me now. 

Yet him for this my love no w'hit dis¬ 
dain eth; 

Suns of the world may stain, when heaven’s 
sun staineth. 

William Shakespeare. 


The Sabbath Morning. 

With silent awe I hail the sacred morn, 

That slowly wakes while all the fields 
are still! 

A soothing calm on every breeze is borne; 

A graver murmur gurgles from the rill; 

And Echo answers softer from the hill; 

And softer sings the linnet from the thorn; 

The skylark w 7 arbles in a tone less shrill. 

Hail, light serene! hail, sacred Sabbath 
morn ! 

The rooks float silent by in airy drove; 

The sun a placid yellow 7 lustre throws ; 

The gales that lately sigh’d along the 
grove, 





POEMS OF NATURE. 


449 


Have hush’d their downy wings in dead 
repose; 

The hovering rack of clouds forgets to 
move— 

So smiled the day when the first morn 
arose! 

John Leyden. 

Ode to Evening. 

If aught of oaten stop, or pastoral song, 

May hope, O pensive Eve, to soothe thine 
ear, 

Like thy own brawling springs, 

Thy springs, and dying gales ; 

O nymph reserved, while now the bright- 
liair’d sun 

Sits in yon western tent whose cloudy 
skirts, 

With brede ethereal wove, 

O’erhang his wavy bed : 

Now air is hush’d, save where the weak- 
eyed bat, 

With short shrill shriek flits by on leathern 
wing, 

Or where the beetle winds 
His small but sullen horn, 

As oft he rises midst the twilight path, 

Against the pilgrim borne in needless 
hum: 

Now teach me, maid composed, 

To breathe some soften’d strain, 

Whose numbers stealing through thy dark¬ 
ening vale 

May not unseemly with its stillness suit; 
As musing slow I hail 
Thy genial loved return ! 

For when thy folding star arising shows 

His paly circlet, at his warning lamp 
The fragrant Hours and Elves 
Who slept in buds the day, 

And many a nymph who wreathes her 
brows with sedge, 

And sheds the freshening dew, and, love¬ 
lier still, 

The pensive Pleasures sweet, 

Prepare thy shadowy car. 

29 


Then let me rove some wild and heathy 

scene, 

Or find some ruin midst its dreary dells, 
Whose walls more awful nod 
By thy religious gleams. 

Or if chill blustering winds, or driving 
rain, 

Prevent my willing feet, be mine the hut 
That from the mountain’s side 
Views wilds and swelling floods, 

And hamlets brown, and dim-discover’d 
spires, 

And hears their simple bell, and marks 
o’er all 

Thy dewy fingers draw 
The gradual dusky veil. 

While Spring shall pour his showers, as 
oft he w r ont, 

And bathe thy breathing tresses, meekest 
Eve! 

While Summer loves to sport 
Beneath thy lingering light; 

While sallow Autumn fills thy lap with 
leaves; 

Or Winter, yelling through the troublous 
air, 

Affrights thy shrinking train, 

And rudely rends thy robes ; 

So long, regardful of thy quiet rule, 

Shall Fancy, Friendship, Science, smiling 
Peace 

Thy gentlest influence own, 

And love thy favorite name. 

William Collins. 


The Midges Dance aboon the 
Burn. 

The midges dance aboon the burn; 

The dews begin to fa’; 

The pairtricks down the rushy holm 
Set up their e’ening ca’. 

Now loud and clear the blackbird’s sang 
Rings through the briery shaw, 

While, flitting gay, the swallows play 
Around the castle-wa’. 

Beneath the golden gloamin’ sky 
The mavis mends her lay ; 









450 


FIRESIDE ENCYCLOPAEDIA OF POETRY. 


The redbreast pours his sweetest strains 
To charm the lingering day; 

While weary yeldrins seem to wail 
Their little nestlings torn, 

The merry wren, frae den to den, 

Gaes jinking through the thorn. 

The roses fauld their silken leaves, 

The foxglove shuts its bell; 

The honeysuckle and the birk 

Spread fragrance through the dell. 

Let others crowd the giddy court 
Of mirth and revelry, 

The simple joys that Nature yields 
Are dearer far to me. 

Robert Tannahill. 

Sonnet. 

It is a beauteous Evening, calm and free; 
The holy time is quiet as a Nun 
Breathless with adoration; the broad sun 
Is sinking down in its tranquillity; 

The gentleness of heaven is on the Sea : 
Listen ! the mighty Being is awake, 

And doth with his eternal motion make 
A sound like thunder—everlastingly. 

Dear Child! dear Girl! that walkest 
with me here, 

If thou appear’st untouch’d by solemn 
thought, 

Thy nature is not therefore less divine: 
Thou liest in Abraham’s bosom all the 
year; 

And worshipp’st at the Temple’s inner 
shrine, 

God being with thee when we know it 
not. 

William Wordsworth. 

Sabbath Evening. 

How calmly sinks the parting sun ! 

Yet twilight lingers still; 

And beautiful as dream of heaven 
It slumbers on the hill; 

Earth sleeps, with all her glorious things, 
Beneath the Holy Spirit’s wings, 

And, rendering back the hues above, 

Seems resting in a trance of love. 

Round yonder rocks the forest trees 
In shadowy groups recline. 


Like saints at evening bow’d in prayer 
Around their holy shrine; 

And through their leaves the night-winds 
blow, 

So calm and still, their music low 
Seems the mysterious voice of prayer, 

Soft echo'd on the evening air. 

And yonder western throng of clouds, 
Retiring from the sky, 

So calmly move, so softly glow, 

They seem to Fancy’s eye 
Bright creatures of a better sphere, 

Come down at noon to worship here, 

And, from their sacrifice of love, 
Returning to their home above. 

The blue isles of the golden sea, 

The night-arcli floating high, 

1 The flowers that gaze upon the heavens, 
The bright streams leaping by, 

: Are living with religion—-deep 
| On earth and sea its glories sleep, 

And mingle with the starlight rays. 

Like the soft light of parted days. 

[ The spirit of the holy eve 
Comes through the silent air 
To Feeling’s hidden spring, and wakes 
A gush of music there ! 

And the far depths of ether beam 
So passing fair, we almost dream 
That we can rise and wander through 
Their open paths of trackless blue. 

Each soul is fill’d with glorious dreams, 
Each pulse is beating wild; 

And thought is soaring to the shrine 
Of glory undefiled ! 

And holy aspirations start, 

Like blessed angels, from the heart, 

And bind—for earth’s dark ties are riven- 
Our spirits to the gates of heaven. 

George Denison Prentice. 


To Night. 

Mysterious Night! when our first parent 
knew 

Thee from report divine, and heard thy 
name, 

Did he not tremble for this lovely frame, 
This glorious canopy of light and blue ? 










POEMS OF NATURE. 


451 


Yet ’neath the curtain of translucent dew, 
Bathed in the rays of the great setting 
flame, 

Hesperus with the host of heaven came, 

And lo! creation widen’d in man’s view. 

Who could have thought such darkness lay 
conceal’d 

Within thy beams, 0 Sun ! or who could 
find, 

While fly, and leaf, and insect lay reveal’d, 
That to such countless orbs thou mad’st 
us blind ! 

Why do we, then, shun Death with anxious 
strife ?— 

It Light can thus deceive, wherefore not 
Life ? 

Joseph Blanco White. 


To Night. 

Swiftly walk over the western wave, 
Spirit of Night! 

Out of the misty eastern cave, 

Where all the long and lone daylight 
Thou wovest dreams of joy and fear 
Which make thee terrible and dear,— 
Swift be thy flight! 

Wrap thy form in a mantle gray 
Star-inwrought! 

Blind with thine hair the eyes of day, 

Kiss her until she be wearied out, 

Then wander o’er city, and sea, and land, 
Touching all with thine opiate wand— 
Come, long-sought! 

When I arose and saw the dawn, 

I sigh’d for thee ; 

When light rode high, and the dew was 
gone, 

And noon lay heavy on flower and tree, 
And the weary Day turn’d to his rest, 
Lingering like an unloved guest, 

I sigh’d for thee. 

Thy brother Death came, and cried, 
Wouldst thou me ? 

Thy sweet child Sleep, the filmy-eyed, 
Murmur’d like a noontide bee, 

Shall I nestle near thy side ? 

Wouldst thou me?—And I replied, 

No, not thee! 


Death will come when thou art dead, 
Soon, too soon— 

Sleep will come when thou art fled; 

Of neither would I ask the boon 
I ask of thee, belovfed Night— 

Swift be thine approaching flight, 

Come soon, soon! 

Percy Bysshe Shelley. 

The Evening Cloud. 

A cloud lay cradled near the setting sun, 
A gleam of crimson tinged its braided 
snow; 

Long had I watch’d the glory moving on 
O’er the still radiance of the lake be¬ 
low. 

Tranquil its spirit seem’d, and floated 
slow ! 

Even in its very motion there was rest; 

While every breath of eve that chanced to 
blow 

Wafted the traveller to the beauteous 
west. 

Emblem, methought, of the departed soul! 
To whose white robe the gleam of bliss 
is given 

And by the breath of mercy made to roll 
Bight onward to the golden gates of 
heaven, 

Where to the eye of faith it peaceful lies, 

And tells to man his glorious destinies. 

John Wilson. 

The Poplar Field. 

The poplars are felled, farewell to the 
shade, 

And the whispering sound of the cool 
colonnade; 

The winds play no longer and sing in the 
leaves, 

Nor Ouse on his bosom their image re¬ 
ceives. 

Twelve years have elapsed since I last 
took a view 

Of my favourite field, and the bank where 
they grew; 

And now in the grass behold they are laid, 

And the tree is my seat, that once lent me 
a shade. 








452 


FIRESIDE ENCYCLOPAEDIA OF POETRY. 


The blackbird has fled to another retreat, 

Where the hazels afford him a screen from 
the heat, 

And the scene where his melody charmed 
me before, 

Resounds with his sweet-flowing ditty no 
more. 

My fugitive years are all hasting away, 

And I must ere long lie as lowly as they, 

With a turf on my breast, and a stone at 
my head, 

Ere another such grove shall arise in its 
stead. 

’Tis a sight to engage me, if anything can, 

To muse on the perishing pleasures of 
man; 

Though his life be a dream, his enjoy¬ 
ments, I see, 

Have a being less durable even than he. 

William Cowper. 


The Winged Worshippers. 

Gay, guiltless pair, 

What seek ye from the fields of Heaven ? 

Ye have no need of prayer, 

Ye have no sins to be forgiven. 

Why perch ye here, 

Where mortals to their Maker bend? 

Can your pure spirits fear 
The God ye never could offend ? 

Ye never knew 

The crimes for which we come to weep. 

Penance is not for you, 

Blessed wanderers of the upper deep. 

To you ’tis given 

To wake sweet Nature’s untaught lays, 
Beneath the arch of Heaven 
To chirp away a life of praise. 

Then spread each wing, 

Far, far above, o’er lakes and lands, 

And join the choirs that sing 
In yon blue dome not reared with hands. 

Or, if ye stay 

To note the consecrated hour, 

Teach me the airy ways, 

And let me try your envied power. 


Above the crowd, 

On upward wings could I but fly, 

I’d bathe in yon bright cloud, 

And seek the stars that gem the sky. 

’Twere Heaven indeed 
Through fields of trackless light to soar 
On nature’s charms to feed, 

And Nature’s own great God adore. 

Charles Sprague. 


The Lamb. 

Little lamb, who made thee? 

Dost thou know who made thee, 
Gavest thee life, and bade thee feed 
By the stream and o’er the mead; 
Gave thee clothing of delight, 

Softest clothing, woolly, bright; 

Gave thee such a tender voice, 

Making all the vales rejoice? 

Little lamb, who made thee? 

Dost thou know who made thee? 

Little lamb, I’ll tell thee; 

Little lamb, I’ll tell thee: 

He is called by thy name, 

For He calls himself a Lamb. 

He is meek, and He is mild, 

He became a little child. 

I a child, and thou a lamb, 

We are called by His name. 

Little lamb, God bless thee! 

Little lamb, God bless thee ! 

William Blake. 


Sonnet. 

The world is too much with us; late and 
soon, 

Getting and spending, we lay waste our 
powers: 

Little we see in Nature that is ours; 

We have given our hearts away, a sordid 
booh! 

This Sea that bares her bosom to the 
moon; 

The winds that will be howling at all hours. 

And are up-gathered now like sleeping 
flowers; 







POEMS OF NATURE. 


453 


For this, for everything, we are out of tune; 
It moves us not.—Great God! I’d rather be 
A Pagan suckled in a creed outworn; 

So might I, standing on this pleasant lea, 
Have glimpses that would make me less 
forlorn; 

Have sight of Proteus rising from the sea, 
Or hear old Triton blow his wreathed horn. 

William Wordsworth. 


To the Rainbow. 

Triumphal arch that fill’st the sky 
When storms prepare to part, 

I ask not proud Philosophy 
To teach me what thou art— 

Still seem, as to my childhood’s sight, 

A mid-way station given 
For happy spirits to alight 
Betwixt the earth and heaven. 

Can all that Optics teach, unfold 
Thy form to please me so, 

As when I dream’d of gems and gold 
Hid in thy radiant bow ? 

When Science from Creation’s face 
Enchantment’s veil withdraws, 

What lovely visions yield their place 
To cold material laws! 

And yet, fair bow, no fabling dreams 
But words of the Most High, 

Have told why first thy robe of beams 
Was woven in the sky. 

When o’er the green undeluged earth 
Heaven’s covenant thou did’st shine, 
How came the world’s gray fathers forth 
To watch thy sacred sign! 

And when its yellow lustre smiled 
O’er mountains yet untrod, 

Each mother held aloft her child 
To bless the bow of God. 

Methinks, thy jubilee to keep, 

The first-made anthem rang 
On earth, deliver'd from the deep, 

And the first poet sang. 


Nor ever shall the Muse’s eye 
Unraptured greet thy beam; 

Theme of primeval prophecy, 

Be still the prophet’s theme! 

The earth to thee her incense yields, 
The lark thy welcome sings, 

When, glittering in the freshen’d fields, 
The snowy mushroom springs. 

How glorious is thy girdle cast 
O’er mountain, tower, and town, 

Or mirror’d in the ocean vast, 

A thousand fathoms down ! 

As fresh in yon horizon dark, 

As young thy beauties seem, 

As when the eagle from the ark 
First sported in thy beam. 

For, faithful to its sacred page, 

Heaven still rebuilds thy span, 

Nor lets the type grow pale with age 
That first spoke peace to man. 

Thomas Campbell. 

The Rainbow. 

My heart leaps up when I behold 
A Rainbow in the sky: 

So was it when my life began; 

So is it now I am a Man; 

So be it when I shall grow old, 

Or let me die ! 

The Child is Father of the Man; 

And I could wish my days to be 
Bound each to each by natural piety. 

William Wordsworth. 

The Cloud. 

I bring fresh showers for the thirsting 
flowers, 

From the seas and the streams; 

I bear light shade for the leaves when 
laid 

In their noonday dreams. 

From my wings are shaken the dews that 
waken 

The sweet birds every one, 

When rock’d to rest on their mother’s 
breast, 

As she dances about the suu. 




FIRESIDE ENCYCLOPAEDIA OF POETRY. 


4&4 


I wield the flail of the lashing hail, 

And whiten the green plains under; 

And then again I dissolve it in rain; 

And laugh as I pass in thunder. 

I sift the snow on the mountains below, 
And their great pines groan aghast; 

And all the night ’tis my pillow white, 
While I sleep in the arms of the blast. 
Sublime on the towers of my skyey bowers 
Lightning, my pilot, sits; 

In a cavern under is fetter’d the thunder; 

It struggles and howls at fits. 

Over earth and ocean, with gentle motion, 
This pilot is guiding me, 

Lured by the love of the genii that move 
In the depths of the purple sea; 

Over the rills, and the crags, and the 
hills, 

Over the lakes and the plains, 

Wherever he dream, under mountain or 
stream, 

The Spirit he loves remains; 

And I all the while bask in heaven’s blue 
smile, 

Whilst he is dissolving in rains. 

The sanguine sunrise, with his meteor 
eyes, 

And his burning plumes outspread, 
Leaps on the back of my sailing rack, 
When the morning star shines dead. 

As, on the jag of a mountain-crag 

Which an earthquake rocks and swings, 
An eagle, alit, one moment may sit 
In the light of its golden wings; 

And when sunset may breathe, from the 
lit sea beneath, 

Its ardors of rest and of love, 

And the crimson pall of eve may fall 
From the depth of heaven above, 

With wings folded I rest on mine airy 
nest, 

As still as a brooding dove. 

That orbed maiden with white fire laden, 
Whom mortals call the moon, 

Glides glimmering o’er my fleece-like 
floor 

By the midnight breezes strewn ; 

And wherever the beat of her unseen 
feet, 

Which only the angels hear, 


May have broken the woof of my tent’s 
thin roof, 

The stars peep behind her and peer; 
And I laugh to see them whirl and 
flee, 

Like a swarm of golden bees, 

When I widen the rent in my wind-built 
tent, 

Till the calm rivers, lakes, and seas, 

Like strips of the sky fallen through me on 
high, 

Are each paved with the moon and 
these. 

I bind the sun’s throne with a burning 
zone, 

And the moon’s with a girdle of pearl ; 
The volcanoes are dim, and the stars reel 
and swim, 

When the whirlwinds my banner un¬ 
furl. 

From cape to cape, w r ith a bridge-like 
shape, 

Over a torrent sea, 

Sunbeam-proof, I hang like a roof, 

The mountains its columns be. 

The triumphal arch, through which I 
march 

With hurricane, fire, and snow, 

When the powers of the air are chain’d to 
my chair, 

Is the million-color’d bow; 

The sphere-fire above its soft colors wove, 

While the moist earth was laughing be¬ 
low. 

I am the daughter of earth and water, 

And the nursling of the sky; 

I pass through the pores of the ocean and 
shores; 

T change, but I cannot die. 

For after the rain, when, with never a 
stain, 

The pavilion of heaven is bare, 

And the winds and sunbeams, with their 
convex gleams, 

Build up the blue dome of air— 

I silently laugh at my own cenotaph, 

And out of the caverns of rain, 

Like a child from the womb, like a ghost 
from the tomb, 

I arise and unbuild it again. 

Pkkcy Bysshe Shelley. 








POEMS OF NA TURF. 


455 


Fancy in Nubibus ; 

Or, The Poet in the Clouds. 

Oh, it is pleasant, with a heart at ease, 
Just after sunset, or by moonlight skies, 
To make the shifting clouds be what you 
please, 

Or let the easily-persuaded eyes 
Own each quaint likeness issuing from the 
mould 

Of a friend’s fancy; or with head bent 
low 

And cheek aslant see rivers flow of gold 
’Twixt crimson banks; and then, a trav- 
veller, go 

From mount to mount through Cloudland, 
gorgeous land! 

Or listening to the tide, with closed sight, 
Be that blind bard, who on the Chian strand 
By those deep sounds possess’d with in¬ 
ward light, 

Beheld the Iliad and the Odyssee 
Bise to the swelling of the voiceful sea. 

Samuel Taylor Coleridge. 

Drinking. 

The thirsty earth soaks up the rain, 

And drinks, and gapes for drink again ; 
The plants suck in the earth, and are, 
With constant drinking, fresh and fair; 
The sea itself (which one would think 
Should have but little need of drink) 
Drinks ten thousand rivers up, 

So filled that they o’erflow the cup. 

The busie sun (and one would guess 
By’s drunken fiery face no less) 

Drinks up the sea, and when he ’as done, 
The moon and stars drink up the sun: 
They drink and dance by their own light; 
They drink and revel all the night. 
Nothing in Nature’s sober found, 

But an eternal “ health ” goes round. 

Fill up the bowl then, fill it high— 

Fill all the glasses there; for why 
Should every creature drink but I; 

AVhy, man of morals, tell me why ? 

Anacreon (Greek). 
Translation of Abraham CowleX- 

To Cynthia. 

Queen and huntress, chaste and fair, 
Now the sun is laid to sleep, 


Seated in thy silver chair 
State in wonted manner keep: 
Hesperus entreats thy light, 

Goddess excellently bright! 

Earth, let not thv envious shade 
Dare itself to interpose; 

Cynthia’s shining orb was made 
Heaven to clear when day did close 
Bless us, then, with wished sight, 
Goddess excellently bright! 

Lay thy bow of pearl apart, 

And thy crystal-shining quiver; 
Give unto thy flying hart 

Space to breathe, how short soever; 
Thou that mak’st a day of night, 
Goddess excellently bright! 

Ben Jonson. 


TO THE MOON. 

Art thou pale for weariness 

Of climbing heaven, and gazing on the earth, 
Wandering companionless 

Among the stars that have a different 
birth,— 

And .ever changing, like a joyless eye 

That finds no object worth its constancy ? 

Percy Bysshe Shelley. 

Sonnet. 

To the Moon. 

0 Moon, that shinest on this heathy 
wild, 

And light’st the hill of Hastings with 
thy ray, 

How am I with thy sad delight beguiled! 

How hold with fond imagination play! 

By thy broad taper I call up the time 

When Harold on the bleeding verdure 

hay; 

Though great in glory, overstain’d with 
crime, 

And fallen by his fate from kingly sway! 

On bleeding knights, and on war-broken 
arms, 

Torn banners, and the dying steeds you 
shone, 

When this fair England, and her peerless 
charms, 

And all, but honor, to the foe were gone! 








456 


FIRESIDE ENCYCLOPAEDIA OF POETRY. 


Here died the king, whom his brave sub¬ 
jects chose, 

But, dying, lay amid his Norman foes! 

Lord Thu blow. 

To the Evening Star. 

How sweet thy modest light to view, 

Fair star, to love and lovers dear, 

While trembling on the falling dew, 

Like beauty shining through a tear ! 

Or hanging o’er that mirror-stream, 

To mark that image trembling there, 
Thou seem’st to smile with softer gleam, 
To see thy lovely face so fair. 

Though, blazing o’er the arch of night, 
The moon thy timid beams outshine 
As far as thine each starry light,— 

Her rays can never vie with thine. 

Thine are the soft enchanting hours 
When twilight lingers on the plain, 

And whispers to the closing flowers 
That soon the sun will rise again. 

Thine is the breeze that, murmuring bland 
As music, wafts the lover’s sigh, 

And bids the yielding heart expand 
In love’s delicious ecstasy. 

Fair star ! though I be doom’d to prove 
That rapture’s tears are mix’d with pain, 
Ah ! still I feel ’tis sweet to love,— 

But sweeter to be loved again. 

John Leyden. 

Song. 

To the Evening Star. 

Star that bringest home the bee, 

And sett’st the weary laborer free ! 

If any star shed peace, ’tis thou 
That send’st it from above, 

Appearing w T hen Heaven’s breath and brow 
Are sweet as hers we love. 

Come to the luxuriant skies 
Whilst the landscape’s odors rise, 

Whilst far-off lowing herds are heard, 

And songs, when toil is done, 

From cottages whose smoke unstirr’d 
Curls yellow in the sun. 


Star of love’s soft interviews ! 

Parted lovers on thee muse; 

Their remembrancer in Heaven 
Of thrilling vows thou art, 

Too delicious to be riven 
By absence from the heart. 

Thomas Campbell. 


On a Sprig of Heath. 

Flower of the waste! the heathfowl shuus 
For thee the brake and tangled wood— 
To thy protecting shade she runs, 

Thy tender buds supply her food ; 

Her young forsake her downy plumes 
To rest upon thy opening blooms. 

Flower of the desert though thou art! 

The deer that range the mountain free, 
The graceful doe, the stately hart, 

Their food and shelter seek from thee; 
The bee thy earliest blossom greets, 

And draws from thee her choicest sweets. 

Gem of the heath! whose modest bloom 
Sheds beauty o’er the lonely moor, 
Though thou dispense no rich perfume, 
Nor yet with splendid tints allure, 

Both valor’s crest and beauty’s bower 
Oft hast thou decked, a favorite flower. 

Flower of the wild! whose purple glow 
Adorns the dusky mountain’s side, 

Not the gay hues of Iris’ bow, 

Nor garden’s artful varied pride, 

With all its wealth of sweets, could cheer, 
Like thee, the hardy mountaineer. 

Flower of his heart! thy fragrance mild 
Of peace and freedom seems to breathe; 
To pluck thy blossoms in the wild, 

And deck his bonnet with the wreath, 
WheTe dwelt of old his rustic sires, 

Is all his simple wish requires. 

Flower of his dear-loved native land! 

Alas, when distant, far more dear! 

When he from some cold foreign strand 
Looks homeward through the blinding 
tear, 

How must his aching heart deplore, 

That home and thee he sees no more! 

Anne Grant. 





POEMS OF NATURE. 


457 


The First Skylark of Spring. 

Two worlds hast thou to dwell in, Sweet— 
The virginal, untroubled sky, 

And this vext region at my feet. 

Alas, but one have I! 

To all my songs there clings the shade, 

The dulling shade, of mundane care. 

They amid mortal mists are made— 

Thine, in immortal air. 

My heart is dashed with griefs and fears ; 
My song comes fluttering, and is gone. 

O high above the home of tears, 

Eternal Joy, sing on ! 

Not loftiest bard, of mightiest mind, 

Shall ever chant a note so pure, 

Till he can cast this earth behind, 

And breathe in heaven secure. 

We sing of Life, with stormy breath 
That shakes the lute’s distempered string; 

We sing of Love, and loveless Death 
Takes up the song we sing. 

And, born in toils of Fate’s control, 
Insurgent from the womb, we strive 

With proud, unmanumitted soul 
To burst the golden gyve. 

Thy spirit knows nor bounds nor bars; 

On thee no shreds of thraldom hang: 

Not more enlarged, the morning stars 
Their great Te Deum sang. 

But I am fettered to the sod, 

And but forget my bonds an hour; 

In amplitude of dreams a god, 

A slave in dearth of power. 

And fruitless knowledge clouds my soul, 
And fretful ignorance irks it more. 

Thou sing’st as if thou knew’st the whole, 
And lightly held’st thy lore! 

Sing, for with rapturous throes of birth, 
And arrowy labyrinthine sting, 

There riots in the veins of Earth 
The ichor of the Spring! 

Sing, for the beldam Night is fled, 

And Morn the bride is wreathed and gay. 

Sing, while her revelling lord o’erhead 
Leads the wild dance of day. 


The serpent Winter ^sleeps upcurled: 

Sing, till I know not if there be 
Aught else in the dissolving world 
But melody and thee! 

I Sing, as thou drink’st of heaven thy fill. 
All hope, all wonder, all desire— 
Creation’s ancient canticle 

To which the worlds conspire! 

Somewhat as thou, Man once could sing, 
In porches of the lucent morn, 

Ere he had felt his lack of wing, 

Or cursed his iron bourn. 

The springtime bubbled in his throat, 

The sweet sky seemed not far above, 

And young and lovesome came the note;— 
Ah, thine is Youth and Love! 

Thou sing’st of what he knew of old, 

And dreamlike from afar recalls; 

In flashes of forgotten gold 
An orient glory falls. 

And as he listens, one by one 
Life’s utmost splendors blaze more nigh; 
Less inaccessible the sun, 

Less alien grows the sky. 

For thou art native to the spheres, 

And of the courts of heaveu art free, 
And carriest to his temporal ears 
News from eternity; 

And lead’st him to the dizzy verge, 

And lur’st him o’er the dazzling line, 
Where mortal and immortal merge, 

And human dies divine. 

William Watson. 

Flowers. 

Sweet nurslings of the vernal skies, 
Bathed in soft airs, and fed with dew 
What more than magic in you lies 
To fill the heart’s fond view! 

In childhood’s sports companions gay j 
In sorrow, on life’s downward way, 

How soothing! in our last decay, 
Memorials prompt and true. 

Relics ye are of Eden’s bowers, 

As pure, as fragrant, and as fair, 






458 


FIRESIDE ENCYCLOPAEDIA OF POETRY. 


As when ye crown’d the sunshine hours 
Of happy wanderers there. 

Fall’n all beside,—the world of life 
How is it stain’d with fear and strife! 

In reason’s world what storms are rife, 
What passions rage and glare! 

But cheerful, and unchanged the while, 
Your first and perfect form ye show, 

The same that won Eve’s matron smile 
In the world’s opening glow. 

The stars of heaven a course are taught, 
Too high above our human thought;— 

Ye may be found if ye are sought, 

And as we gaze, we know. 

Ye dwell beside our paths, and homes, 

Our paths of sin, our homes of sorrow, 
And guilty man, where’er he roams, 

Your innocent mirth may borrow. 

The birds of air before us fleet, 

They cannot brook our shame to meet,— 
But we may taste your solace sweet, 

And come again to-morrow. 

Ye fearless in your nests abide; 

Nor may we scorn, too proudly wise, 
Your silent lessons, undescried 
By all but lowly eyes; 

For ye could draw th’ admiring gaze 
Of Him who worlds and hearts surveys; 
Your order wild, your fragrant maze, 

He taught us how to prize. 

Ye felt your Maker’s smile that hour, 

As when He paused, and own’d you 
good, 

His blessing on earth’s primal bower, 

Ye felt it all renew’d. 

What care ye now, if winter’s storm 
Sweep restless o’er each silken form ? 
Christ’s blessing at your heart is warm, 

Ye fear no vexing mood. 

Alas! of thousand bosoms kind, 

That daily court you, and caress, 

How few the happy secret find 
Of your calm loveliness! 

“ Live for to-day!” to-morrow’s light 
To-morrow’s cares shall bring to sight. 

Go, sleep like closing flowers at night, 

And Heaven thy morn will bless. 

John Keble. 


Chorus of the Flowers. 

We are the sweet Flowers, 

Born of sunny showers, 

Think, whene’er you see us, what our 
beauty saith; 

Utterance mute and bright 
Of some unknown delight, 

We fill the air with pleasure, by our simple 
breath: 

All who see us love us; 

We befit all places; 

Unto sorrow we give smiles; and unto 
graces, graces. 

Mark our ways, how noiseless 
All, and sweetly voiceless, 

Though the March-winds pipe to make our 
passage clear; 

Not a whisper tells 
Where our small seed dwells, 

Nor is known the moment green when our 
tips appear. 

We thread the earth in silence, 

In silence build our bowers; 

And leaf by leaf in silence show, till we 
laugh atop, sweet Flowers. 

The dear lumpish baby, 

. Humming with the May bee, 

Hails us with his bright stare, stumbling 
through the grass; 

The honey-dropping moon, 

On a night in June, 

Kisses our pale pathway leaves, that felt 
the bridegroom pass. 

Age, the wither’d clinger, 

On us mutely gazes, 

And wraps the thought of his last bed in 
his childhood’s daisies. 

See, and scorn all duller 
Taste, how Heaven loves color; 

How great Nature, clearly, joys in red and 
green; 

What sweet thoughts she thinks 
Of violets and pinks, 

And a thousand flashing hues made solely 
to be seen; 

See her whitest lilies 
Chill the silver showers, 

And what a red mouth has her rose, the 
woman of the Flowers. 




POEMS OF NATURE. 


459 


Uselessness divinest, 

Of a use the finest, 

Painteth us, the teachers of the end of 
use; 

Travellers, weary-eyed, 

Bless us, far and wide; 

Unto sick and prison’d thoughts we give 
sudden truce; 

Not a poor town-window 
Loves its sickliest planting, 

But its wall speaks loftier truth than 
Babylon’s whole vaunting. 

Sage are yet the uses 
Mix’d with our sweet juices, 

Whether man or May-fly profits of the 
balm; 

As fair fingers heal’d 
Knights from the olden field, 

We hold cups of mightiest force to give 
the wildest calm. 

E’en the terror, poison, 

Hath its plea for blooming; 

Life it gives to reverent lips, though death 
to the presuming. 

And oh ! our sweet soul-taker, 

That thief, the honey-maker, 

What a house hath he, by the thymy glen! 
In his talking rooms 
How the feasting fumes, 

Till his gold cups overflow to the mouths 
of men! 

The butterflies come aping 
Those fine thieves of ours, 

And flutter round our rifled tops, like 
tickled flowers with flowers. 

See those tops, how beauteous ! 

What fair service duteous 
Round some idol waits, as on their lord the 
Nine? 

Elfin court ’twould seem, 

And taught, perchance, that dream 
Which the old Greek mountain dreamt 
upon nights divine. 

To expound such wonder 
Human speech avails not, 

Yet there dies no poorest weed, that such 
a glory exhales not. 

Think of all these treasures, 

Matchless works and pleasures, 


Every one a marvel, more than thought 
can say; 

Then think in what bright showers 
We thicken fields and bowers, 

And with what heaps of sweetness half 
stifle wanton May; 

Think of the mossy forests 
By the bee-birds haunted, 

And all those Amazonian plains, lone 
. lying as enchanted. 

Trees themselves are ours; 

Fruits are born of flowers; 

Peach and roughest nut were blossoms in 
the Spring ; 

The lusty bee knows well 
The news, and comes pell-mell, 

And dances in the bloomy thicks with 
darksome antheming. 

Beneath the very burthen 
Of planet-pressing ocean 
We wash our smiling cheeks in peace, a 
thought for meek devotion. 

Tears of Phoebus—missings 
Of Cytherea’s kissings, 

Have in us been found, and wise men find 
them still; 

Drooping grace unfurls 
Still Hyacinthus’ curls, 

And Narcissus loves himself in the selfish 
rill; 

Thy red lip, Adonis, 

Still is wet with morning; 

And the step that bled for thee the rosy 
brier adorning. 

Oh ! true things are fables, 

Fit for sagest tables, 

And the flowers are true things, yet no fa¬ 
bles they; 

Fables were not more 
Bright, nor loved of yore— 

Yet they grew not, like the flowers, by 
every old pathway; 

Grossest hand can test us ; 

Fool^may prize us never; 

Yet we rise, and rise, and rise, marvels 
sweet for ever. 

Who shall say that flowers 
Dress not heaven’s own bowers ? 





460 


FIRESIDE ENCYCLOPAEDIA OF POETRY. 


Who its love, without them, can fancy—or 
sweet floor ? 

Who shall even dare 
To say we sprang not there, 

And came not down, that Love might bring 
one piece of heaven the more? 

Oh ! pray believe that angels 
From those blue dominions 

Brought us in their white laps down, ’twixt 
their golden pinions. 

Leigh Hunt. 

Hymn to the Flowers. 

Day-stars! that ope your eyes with morn 
to twinkle 

From rainbow galaxies of earth’s crea¬ 
tion, 

And dewdrops on her lonely altars sprin¬ 
kle 

As a libation! 

Ye matin worshippers! who bending 
lowly 

Before the uprisen sun—God’s lidless 
eye— 

Throw from your chalices a sweet and 
holy 

Incense on high ! 

Ye bright mosaics! that with storied 
beauty 

The floor of Nature's temple tessellate, 

What numerous emblems of instructive 
duty 

Your forms create! 

’Neath cloister’d boughs, each floral bell 
that swingeth 

And tolls its perfume on the passing air, 

Makes Sabbath in the fields, and ever 
ringeth 

A call to prayer. 

Not to the domes where crumbling arch 
and column 

Attest the feebleness of mortal hand, 

But to that fane, most catholic and solemn, 

Which God hath plann’d; 

To that cathedral, boundless as our won¬ 
der, 

Whose quenchless lamps the sun and 
moon supply— 


Its choir the winds and waves, its organ 
thunder, 

Its dome the sky. 

There—as in solitude and shade I wander 

Through the green aisles, or, stretch’d 
upon the sod, 

Awed by the silence, reverently ponder 
The ways of God— 

Your voiceless lips, 0 Flowers, are living 
preachers, 

Each cup a pulpit, every leaf a book, 

Supplying to my fancy numerous teachers 
From loneliest nook. 

Floral apostles! that in dewy splendor 

“ Weep without woe, and blush without 
a crime,” 

Oh, may I deeply learn, and ne’er surren¬ 
der, 

» Your lore sublime! 

“Thou wert not, Solomon! in all thy 
glory, 

Array’d,” the lilies cry, “ in robes like 
ours; 

How vain your grandeur! Ah, how tran¬ 
sitory 

Are human flowers!” 

In the sweet-scented pictures, Heavenly 
Artist! 

With which thou paintest Nature’s wide¬ 
spread hall, 

j What a delightful lesson thou impartest 
Of love to all! 

Not useless are ye, Flowers! though made 
for pleasure; 

Blooming o’er field and wave, by day 
and night, 

From every source your sanction bids me 
treasure 

Harmless delight. 

Ephemeral sages ! what instructors hoary 

For such a world of thought could fur¬ 
nish scope? 

Each fading calyx a memento mori, 

Yet fount of hope. 

Posthumous glories! angel-like collection! 

Upraised from seed or bulb interr’d in 
earth, 








POEMS OF NATURE 


401 


Ye are to me a type of resurrection, 

And second birth. 

Were I in churchless solitudes remaining, 
Far from all voice of teachers and 
divines, 

My soul would find, in flowers of God’s or¬ 
daining, 

Priests, sermons, shrines! 

Horace Smith. 

To an Early Primrose. 

Mild offspring of a dark and sullen sire ! 

Whose modest form, so delicately fine, 
Was nursed in whirling storms, 

And cradled in the winds, 

Thee, when young Spring first question’d 
Winter’s sway, 

And dared the sturdy blusterer to the fight, 
Thee on this bank he threw 
To mark his victory. 

In this low vale, the promise of the year, 

Serene, thou openest to the nipping gale, 
Unnoticed and alone, 

Thy tender elegance. 

So Virtue blooms, brought forth amid the 
storms 

Of chill adversity ; in some lone walk 
Of life she rears her head, 

Obscure and unobserved; 

While every bleaching breeze that on her 
blows 

Chastens her spotless purity of breast, 
And hardens her to bear 
Serene the ills of life. 

Henry Kirke White. 


To Primroses, 

FILLED WITH MORNING DEW. 

Why do ye weep, sweet babes? Can 
tears 

Speak grief in you, 

Who were but born 
Just as the modest morn 
Teem’d her refreshing dew ? 

Alas ! you have not known that shower 
That mars a flower; 


Nor felt th’ unkind • 

Breath of a blasting wind ; 

Nor are ye worn with years; 

Or warp’d, as we, 

Who think it strange to see 
Such pretty flowers, like to orphans young, 
Speaking by tears before ye have a tongue. 

Speak, whimpering younglings, and make 
known 

The reason why 
Ye droop and weep. 

Is it for want of sleep, 

Or childish lullaby? 

Or, that ye have not seen as yet 
The violet? 

Or brought a kiss 

From that sweetheart to this? 

No, no; this sorrow, shown 
By your tears shed, 

Would have this lecture read:— 
“That things of greatest, so of meanest 
worth, 

Conceived with grief are, and with tears 
brought forth.” 

Robert Herrick. 


Daffodils. 

I wander’d lonely as a Cloud 
That floats on high o’er Vales and Hills, 
When all at once I saw a crowd, 

A host, of golden Daffodils, 

Beside the Lake, beneath the trees, 
Fluttering and dancing in the breeze. 

Continuous as the stars that shine 
And twinkle on the Milky Way, 

They stretch’d in never-ending line 
Along the margin of a bay: 

Ten thousand saw I at a glance, 

Tossing their heads in sprightly dance. 

The waves beside them danced, but they 
Outdid the sparkling waves in glee :— 

A poet could not but be gay 
In such a jocund company: 

I gazed—and gazed—but little thought 
What wealth the show to me had brought: 

For oft, when on my couch I lie 
In vacant or in pensive mood, 







402 


FIRES WE ENCYCLOPAEDIA OF POETRY. 


They flash upon that inward eye, 
Which is the bliss of solitude, 

And then my heart with pleasure fills, 
And dances with the Daffodils. 

William Wordsworth. 


To Daffodils. 

Fair Daffodils, we weep to see 
You haste away so soon : 

As yet the early-rising Sun 
Has not attain’d his noon. 

Stay, stay, 

Until the hasting day 
Has run 

But to the even-song; 

And, having pray’d together, we 
Will go with you along. 

We have short time to stay, as you, 
We have as short a Spring; 

As quick a growth to meet decay 
As you, or any thing. 

We die, 

As your hours do, and dry 
Away 

Like to the Summer’s rain ; 

Or as the pearls of morning’s dew, 
Ne’er to he found again. 

Robert Herrick. 

The Violet. 

O faint, delicious, spring-time violet ! 

Thine odor, like a key, 

Turns noiselessly in memory’s wards to let 
A thought of sorrow free. 

The breath of distant fields upon my brow 
Blows through that open door 
The sound of wind-borne bells, more 
sweet and low, 

And sadder than of yore. 

It comes afar, from that beloved place 
And that beloved hour, 

When life hung ripening in love’s golden 
grace, 

Like grapes above a bower. 

A spring goes singing through its reedy 
grass; 

The lark sings o’er my head, 


Drown’d in the sky—oh pass, ye visions, 
pass! 

I would that I were dead!— 

Why hast thou open’d that forbidden door 
From which I ever flee? 

O vanish’d Joy! 0 Love, that art no 
more, 

Let my vex’d spirit be! 

O violet ! thy odor through my brain 
Hath search’d, and stung to grief 
This sunny day, as if a curse did stain 
Thy velvet leaf. 

William Wetmork Story. 


To the Daisy. 

With little here to do or see 
Of things that in the great world be, 
Sweet Daisy, oft I talk to thee, 

For thou art worthy, 

Thou unassuming Commonplace 
Of Nature, with that homely face, 

And yet with something of a grace,. 
Which Love makes for thee ! 

Oft on the dappled turf at ease 
I sit, and play with similes, 

Loose types of things through all degrees, 
Thoughts of thy raising : 

And many a fond and idle name 
I give to thee, for praise or blame, 

As is the humor of the game, 

While I am gazing. 

A Nun demure, of lowly port; 

Or sprightly Maiden of Love’s Court, 

In thy simplicity the sport 
Of all temptations; 

A Queen in crown of rubies drest; 

A Starveling in a scanty vest; 

Are all, as seems to suit thee best, 

Thy appellations. 

A little Cyclops, with one eye 
Staring to threaten and defy, 

That thought comes next—and instantly 
The freak is over, 

The shape will vanish, and behold 
A silver Shield with boss of gold, 

That spreads itself, some Faery bold 
In fight to cover ! 







POEMS OF NATURE. 


463 


T see thee glittering from afar;—• 

And then thon art a pretty Star; 

Not quite so fair as many are 
In heaven above thee! 

Yet like a star, with glittering crest, 
Self-poised in air thou seem’st to rest;— 
May peace come never to his nest, 

Who shall reprove thee! 

Sweet Flower ! for by that name at last, 
When all my reveries are past, 

I call thee, and to that cleave fast, 

Sweet silent Creature! 

That breath’st with me in sun and air, 
Do thou, as thou art wont, repair 
My heart with gladness, and a share 
Of thy meek nature! 

William Wordsworth. 


To the Daisy. 

Bright flower, whose home is everywhere! 
A Pilgrim bold in Nature’s care, 

And oft, the long year through, the heir 
Of joy or sorrow, 

Methinks that there abides in thee 
Some concord with humanity, 

Given to no other Flower I see 
Tire forest through! 

And •wherefore ? Man is soon deprest; 

A thoughtless Thing ! who, once unblest, 
Does little on his memory rest, 

Or on his reason ; 

But Thou wouldst teach him how to find 
A shelter under every wind, 

A hope for times that are unkind 
And every season. 

Thou wander’st this wide world about, 
Uncheck’d by pride or scrupulous doubt, 
With friends to greet thee, or without, 

Yet pleased and willing; 

Meek, yielding to the occasion’s call, 

And all things suffering from all, 

Thy function apostolical 
In peace fulfilling. 

William Wordsworth. 


To a Mountain Daisy. 

On Turning one down with the Plough, 
in April, 1786. 

Wee, modest, crimson-tipped flower, 
Thou’s met me in an evil hour, 

For I maun crush amang the stoure 
Thy slender stem; 

To spare thee now is past my power, 

Thou bonny gem. 

Alas ! it’s no thy neibor sweet, 

The bonny lark, companion meet, 

Bending thee ’mang the dewy weet, 

Wi’ speckled breast, 

When upward springing, blithe, to greet 
The purpling east. 

Canid blew the bitter biting north 
Upon thy early, humble birth ; 

Yet cheerfully thou glinted forth 
Amid the storm, 

Scarce rear’d above the parent earth 
Thy tender form. 

The flaunting flowers our gardens yield, 
High sheltering woods and wa’s maun 
shield: 

But thou beneath the random bield 
O’ clod or stane, 

Adorns the histie stibble-field, 

Unseen, alane. 

There, in thy scanty mantle clad, 

Thy snawie bosom sunward spread, 

Thou lifts thy unassuming head 
In humble guise; 

But now the share uptears thy bed, 

And low thou lies ! 

Such is the fate of artless maid, 

Sweet flow’ret of the rural shade ! 

By love’s simplicity betray’d, 

And guileless trust, 

Till she, like thee, all soil’d is laid 
Low i’ the dust. 

Such is the fate of simple bard, 

On life’s rough ocean luckless starr’d ! 
Unskilful he to note the card 
Of prudent lore, 

Till billows rage, and gales blow hard, 
And whelm him o’er! 







- -\ 


FIRESIDE ENCYCLOPEDIA OF POETRY. 


464 


Such fate to suffering worth is given, 

Who long with wants and woes has striven, 
By human pride or cunning driven 
To misery’s brink, 

Till, wrench’d of every stay but Heaven, 
He, ruin’d, sink ! 

Even thou who mourn’st the Daisy’s fate, 
That fate is thine,—no distant date : 

Stern Ruin’s ploughshare drives, elate, 
Full on thy bloom, 

Till crush’d beneath the furrow’s weight 
Shall be thy doom ! 

Robert Burns. 


The Rhod or a. 

On being Asked, Whence is the 
Flower ? 

In May, when sea-winds pierced our soli¬ 
tudes, 

I found the fresh Rhodora in the woods 

Spreading its leafless blooms in a damp 
nook, 

To please the desert and the sluggish 
brook: 

The purple petals fallen in the pool 

Made the black water with their beauty 
gay,— 

Here might the red-bird come his plumes 
to cool, 

And court the flower that cheapens his 
array. 

Rhodora ! if the sages ask thee why 

This charm is wasted on the earth and 
sky, 

Tell them, dear, that if eyes were made for 
seeing, 

Then beauty is its own excuse for being. 

Why thou wert there, 0 rival of the 
rose! 

I never thought to ask, I never knew; 

But in my simple ignorance suppose 

The self-same Power that brought me there 
brought you. 

Ralph Waldo Emerson. 

To the Fringed Gentian. 

Thou blossom, bright with autumn dew, 

And color’d with the heaven’s own blue, 


That openest when the quiet light 
Succeeds the keen and frosty night; 

Thou comest not when violets lean 
O’er wandering brooks and springs unseen, 
Or columbines, in purple dress’d, 

Nod o’er the ground-bird’s hidden nest. 

Thou waitest late, and com’st alone, 

When woods are bare and birds are flown, 
And frosts and shortening days portend 
The aged Year is near his end. 

Then doth thy sweet and quiet eye 
Look through its fringes to the sky, 

Blue—blue—as if that skv let fall 
A flower from its cerulean wall. 

I would that thus, when I shall see 
The hour of death draw near to me, 

Hope, blossoming within my heart, 

May look to heaven as I depart. 

William Cullen Bryant. 

The Use of Flowers. 

God might have bade the earth bring forth 
Enough for great and small, 

The oak tree and the cedar tree, 

Without a flower at all. 

We might have had enough, enough, 

For every want of ours, 

For luxury, medicine, and toil, 

And yet have had no flowers. 

The ore within the mountain mine 
Requireth none to grow ; 

Nor doth it need the lotus-flower 
To make the river flow. 

The clouds might give abundant rain, 

The nightly dews might fall, 

And the herb that keepeth life in man 
Might yet have drunk them all. 

Then wherefore, wherefore were they made, 
All dyed with rainbow-light, 

All fashioned with supremest grace, 
Upspringing day and night:— 

Springing in valleys green and low, 

And on the mountains high, 

And in the silent wilderness 
Where no man passes by ? 







POEMS OF NATURE. 


465 


Our outward life requires them not,— 
Then wherefore had they birth ?— 

To minister delight to man, 

To beautify the earth ; 

To comfort man—to whisper hope, 
Whene’er his faith is dim, 

For Who so careth for the flowers 
Will much more care for him ! 

Mary Howitt. 


' Tis the Last Rose of Summer. 

’Tis the last rose of summer, 

Left blooming alone; 

All her lovely companions 
Are faded and gone; 

No flower of her kindred, 

No rosebud, is nigh 

To reflect back her blushes, 

Or give sigh for sigh. 

I’ll not leave thee, thou lone one ! 
To pine on the stem ; 

Since the lovely are sleeping, 

Go sleep thou with them. 

Thus kindly I scatter 
Thy leaves o’er the bed 

Where thy mates of the garden 
Lie scentless and dead. 

So soon may I follow, 

When friendships decay, 

And from love’s shining circle 
The gems drop away. 

AVhen true hearts lie wither’d, 

And fond ones are flown, 

Oh, who would inhabit 
This bleak world alone ? 

Thomas Moore. 


The Ivy Green. 

Oh ! a dainty plant is the Ivy green, 

That creepeth o’er ruins old ! 

Of right choice food are his meals, I 
ween, 

In his cell so lone and cold. 

The walls must be crumbled, the stones 
decay’d, 

To pleasure his dainty whim ; 

30 


And the mouldering dust that years have 
made 

Is a merry meal for him. 

Creeping where no life is seen, 

A rare old plant is the Ivy green. 

Fast he stealeth on, though he wears no 
wings, 

And a staunch old heart has he ! 

How closely he twineth, how tight he 
clings 

To his friend, the huge oak tree ! 

And slyly he traileth along the ground, 
And his leaves he gently waves, 

And he joyously twines and hugs around 
The rich mould of dead men’s graves. 
Creeping where no life is seen, 

A rare old plant is the Ivy green. 

Whole ages have fled, and their works 
* decay’d, 

And nations scatter’d been ; 

But the stout old Ivy shall never fade 
From its hale and hearty green. 

The brave old plant in its lonely days 
Shall fatten upon the past; 

For the stateliest building man can raise 
Is the Ivy’s food at last. 

Creeping where no life is seen, 

A rare old plant is the Ivy green. 

Charles Dickens. 


The Death of the Flowers. 

The melancholy days are come, the saddest 
of the year, 

Of wailing winds, and naked woods, and 
meadows brown and sere. 

Heap’d in the hollows of the grove, the 
autumn leaves lie dead; 

They rustle to the eddying gust, and to the 
rabbit’s tread. 

The robin and the wren are flown, and from 
the shrubs the jay, 

And from the wood-top calls the crow 
through all the gloomy day. 

Where are the flowers, the fair young flow¬ 
ers, that lately sprang and stood 

In brighter light and softer airs, a beaute¬ 
ous sisterhood? 






406 


FIRESIDE ENCYCLOPEDIA OF POETRY. 


Alas! they all are in their graves; the 
gentle race of flowers 
Are lying in their lowly beds with the fair 
, and good of ours. 

The rain is falling where they lie; but the 
cold November rain 

Calls not from out the gloomy earth the 
lovely ones again. 

The wind-flower and the violet, they per¬ 
ish’d long ago, 

And the brier-rose and the orchis died 
amid the summer glow ; 

But on the hill the golden-rod, and the 
aster in the wood, 

And the yellow sunflower by the brook, in 
autumn beauty stood, 

Till fell the frost from the clear cold 
heaven, as falls the plague on men, 
And the brightness of their smile was gone 
from upland, glade, and glen. 

And now, when comes the calm mild day, 
as still such days will come, 

To call the squirrel and the bee from out 
their winter home; 

When the sound of dropping nuts is heard, 
though all the trees are still, 

And twinkle in the smoky light the waters 
of the rill, 

The south wind searches for the flowers 
whose fragrance late he bore, 

And sighs to find them in the wood and by 
the stream no more. 

And then I think of one who in her youth¬ 
ful beauty died, 

The fair meek blossom that grew up and 
faded by my side. 

In the cold moist earth we laid her when 
the forest cast the leaf, 

And we wept that one so lovely should 
have a life so brief; 

Yet not unmeet it was that one, like that 
young friend of ours, 

So gentle and so beautiful, should perish 
with the flowers. 

William Cullen Bryant. 

To Blossoms. 

Fair pledges of a fruitful tree, 

Why do ye fall so fast? 

Your date is not so past 


But you may stay yet here a while 
To blush and gently smile, 

A nd go at last. 

What! were ye born to be 
An hour or half’s delight, 

And so to bid good-night? 

’Tis pity Nature brought ye forth, 
Merely to show your worth, 

And lose you quite. 

But you are lovely leaves, where we 
May read how soon things have 
Their end, though ne’er so brave; 
And, after they have shown their pride 
Like you a while, they glide 
Into the grave. 

Robert Herrick. 

A LMOND- BL OSSOM. 

Blossom of the almond trees, 

April’s gift to April’s bees, 

Birthday ornament of spring, 

Flora’s fairest daughterling ;— 

Coming when no flowerets dare 
Trust the cruel outer air, 

When the royal king-cup bold 
Dares not don his coat of gold, 

And the sturdy blackthorn spray 
Keeps his silver for the May ;— 

Coming when no flowerets would, 

Save thy lowly sisterhood, 

Early violets, blue and white, 

Dying for their love of light,— 
Almond-blossom, sent to teach us 
That the spring days soon will reach us, 
Lest, with longing over-tried, 

We die as the violets died,— 

Blossom, clouding all the tree 
With thy crimson ’broidery, 

Long before a leaf of green 
On the bravest bough is seen,— 

Ah ! when winter winds are swinging 
All thy red bells into ringing, 

With a bee in every bell, 
Almond-bloom, we greet thee well. 

Edwin Arnold. 

Song. 

Under the greenwood tree 
Who loves to lie with me 








POEMS OF NATURE. 


4(17 


And tune his merry note 
Unto the sweet bird’s throat, 

Come hither, come hither, come hither; 
Here shall he see 
No enemy 

But Winter and rough weather. 

Who doth ambition shun 
And loves to live i’ the sun, 

Seeking the food he eats, 

And pleased with what he gets, 
Come hither, come hither, come hither; 
Here shall he see 
No enemy 

But Winter and rough weather. 

William Shakespeare. 

The Holly Tree. 

O reader ! hast thou ever stood to see 
The holly tree ? 

The eye that contemplates it well, per¬ 
ceives 

Its glossy leaves, 

Ordered by an intelligence so wise 

As might confound the atheist’s sophis¬ 
tries. 

Below, a circling fence, its leaves are seen 
Wrinkled and keen; 

No grazing cattle, through their prickly 
round, 

Can reach to wound ; 

But as they grow where nothing is to fear, 

Smooth and unarm’d the pointless leaves 
appear. 

T love to view these things with curious 
eyes, 

And moralize; 

And in this wisdom of the holly tree 
Can emblems see 

Wherewith, perchance, to make a pleasant 
rhyme, 

One which may profit in the after-time. 

Thus, though abroad, perchance I might 
appear 

Harsh and austere 

To those who on my leisure would intrude, 
Reserved and rude; 

Gentle at home amid my friends I’d be, 

Like the high leaves upon the holly tree. 


And should my youth, as youth is apt, I 
know, 

Some harshness show, 

All vain asperities I, day by day, 

Would wear away, 

Till the smooth temper of my age should 
be 

Like the high leaves upon the holly tree. 

And as, when all the summer trees are 
seen 

So bright and green, 

The holly-leaves their fadeless hues dis¬ 
play 

Less bright than they ; 

But when the bare and wintry woods we 
see, 

What then so cheerful as the holly tree? 

So, serious should my youth appear among 
The thoughtless throng; 

So would I seem, amid the young and gay, 
More grave than they; 

That in my age as cheerful I might be 
As the green winter of the holly tree. 

Robert Southey. 


The River. 

Down-trickling, soft and slow, 
Where the green mosses grow, 

The baby streamlet hardly wakes the hush 
That broods o’er yonder height, 

Where falls the calm, low light, 

And moor and peak give back the crimson 
flush. 

Then, as its waters swell, 

O’er crag, and rock, and fell, 

They pour in many a thread of silver sheen; 
And now their clearer voice 
Bids hill and vale rejoice, 

And sweet, low echoes pierce the still 
serene. 

Wider and wider still, 

Half river and half rill, 

The calmer current gladdens all the fields; 
The banks are green and fair, 

And many a flow’ret bear, 

And every breeze iEolian murmurs yields. 








4GS 


FIRESIDE ENCYCLOPAEDIA OF POETRY. 


There, in its golden bloom, 

The cowslip breathes perfume, 

Gray willows twist their branches hoar and 
brown ; 

There sails in order meet 
The duckling’s velvet fleet, 

Or cygnet’s argosy of golden down. 

Past pleasant village-spire, 

Past cheerful cottage fire, 

In tranquil course flows on the nobler 
stream, 

Spanned in its statelier march 
By many a moss-grown arch, 

Through which the sparkling ripples glance 
and gleam. 

Now on its bosom float 
White sails of fisher’s boat, 

Young swimmers stem the current swift 
and strong; 

Clear through the silent air 
Ring voices free from care, 

Youth’s laughing shout and maiden’s joy¬ 
ous song. 

Onward past ancient halls, 

Onward past castle-walls, 

Each with wild legends of an earlier time,— 
Stories of red-cross knight, 

True to the death in fight, 

Lay of true love, or darker tale of crime. 

And now on either side 
Rise, in exulting pride, 

A city’s turrets, palaces of state; 

The minster’s glorious tower 
Looks down on hall and bower, 

On fortress, market, churches, quay, and 
gate. 

Broad sweeps the mightier flood, 

Where once a forest stood, 

Now all waste marish, fen, and reed-grown ' 
shore; 

And far on either hand 
We see the distant sand, 

And hear the sea’s loud murmurs evermore. 

Tall ships at anchor ride, 

Their country’s joy and pride, 

And bring from East and West their price¬ 
less freight; 


All store of Nature’s gifts 
On that broad current drifts, 

The decks are laden with the glorious 
weight. 

Then, flowing far and free 
Into the boundless sea, 

| The yellow waters stain the crystal blue; 
At last its course is done, 

And lo ! the westering sun 
Floods sea and river with one roseate hue. 

Flow on, ye rivers wide, 

Welcome the changing tide, 

Bear on your breast the costly argosy; 
Flow, fountains, from the hill; 

Flow, through thy meadow, rill ; 

Flow, baby streamlet, flow to yonder sea. 

So flows our human life, 

With mightier issues rife, 

Onward and onward to a wider sea ; 

We note its feeble source, 

We track its wandering course, 

We know not what its destiny shall be. 

Ah ! well if it shall go, 

With clear and crystal flow’, 

Rejoicing, gladdening, blessing still and 
blest; 

In childhood, youth, and age, 

Through all its pilgrimage, 

Still hastening to the Ocean of its Rest. 

But ah ! if it shall waste, 

Its strength in reckless haste, 

The wild stream dashing to the depths 
below; 

Or see, in dull decay, 

All brightness fade away, 

In marsh and fen half stagnate, foul, and 
slow. 

Oh ! that our life might bear, 

Sw’eet music to His ear 
Whom the great waters praise for evermore, 
Attuned to anthems high, 

In glorious harmony, 

Till it toj break upon the Eternal shore. 

Edward Hayes Plumptre. 

SONNET: NOVEMBER. 

The mellow year is hasting to its close; 

The little birds have almost sung their last, 







POEMS OF NATURE. 


469 


Their small notes twitter in the dreary 
blast— 

That shrill-piped harbinger of early snows; 

The patient beauty of the scentless rose, 

Oft with the morn’s hoar crystal quaintly 
glassed, 

Hangs, a pale mourner for the summer past, 

And makes a little summer where it grows: 

In the chill sunbeam of the faint brief day 

The dusky waters shudder as they shine, 

The russet leaves obstruct the straggling 
way 

Of oozy brooks, which no deep banks de¬ 
fine, 

And the gaunt woods, in ragged, scant 
array, 

Wrap their old limbs with sombre ivy 
twine. 

Hartley Coleridge. 

Song of the Brook. 

I come from haunts of coot and hern : 

I make a sudden sally 

And sparkle out among the fern, 

To bicker down a valley. 

By thirty hills I hurry down, 

Or slip between the ridges; 

By twenty thorps, a little town, 

And half a hundred bridges. 

Till last by Philip’s farm I flow 
To join the brimming river; 

For men may come and men may go, 
But I go on for ever. 

I chatter over stony ways, 

In little sharps and trebles; 

I bubble into eddying bays, 

I babble on the pebbles. 

With many a curve my banks I fret 
By many a field and fallow, 

And many a fairy foreland set 
With willow-weed and mallow. 

I chatter, chatter, as I flow 
To join the brimming river ; 

For men may come and men may go, 
But I go on for ever. 

I wind about, and in and out, 

With here a blossom sailing, 


And here and there a lusty trout, 

And here and there a grayling. 

And here and there a foamy flake 
Upon me, as I travel, 

With many a silvery waterbreak 
Above the golden gravel; 

And draw them all aloftg, and flow 
To join the brimming river; 

For men may come and men may go, 
But I go on for ever. 

I steal by lawns and grassy plots ; 

I slide by hazel covers; 

I move the sweet forget-me-nots 
That grow for happy lovers. 

I slip, I slide, I gloom, I glance, 
Among my skimming swallows, 

I make the netted sunbeam dance 
Against my sandy shallows. 

I murmur under moon and stars 
In brambly wildernesses; 

I linger by my shingly bars; 

I loiter round my cresses; 

And out again I curve and flow 
To join the brimming river; 

For men may come and men may go, 
But I go on for ever. 

Alfred Tennyson. 


A RETII USA. 

Arethusa arose 
From her couch of snows 
In the Acroceraunian mountains,— 
From cloud and from crag 
With many a jag, 

Shepherding her bright fountains. 
She leapt down the rocks 
With her rainbow locks 
Streaming among the streams ;— 
Pier steps paved with green 
The downward ravine 
Which slopes to the western gleams: 
And, gliding and springing, 

She went, ever singing 
In murmurs as soft as sleep; 

The Earth seem’d to love her, 
And Heaven smiled above her, 
As she linger’d toward the deep. 





47U 


FIRESIDE ENCYCLOPAEDIA OF POETRY. 


Then Alpheus bold, 

On his glacier cold, 

With his trident the mountains strook; 
And open’d a chasm 
In the rocks;—with the spasm 
All Erymanthus shook. 

And the black south wind 
It conceal’d behind 
The urns of the silent snow, 

And earthquake and thunder 
Did rend in sunder 
The bars of the spjings below: 

The beard and the hair 
Of the river-god were 
Seen through the torrent’s sweep, 

As he follow’d the light 
Of the fleet nymph’s flight 
To the brink of the Dorian deep. 

“ Oh, save me! Oh, guide me ! 

And bid the deep hide me, 

For he grasps me now by the hair!” 
The loud Ocean heard, 

To its blue depth stirr’d, 

And divided at her prayer; 

And under the water 
The Earth’s white daughter 
Fled like a sunny beam ; 

Behind her descended, 

Her billows unblended 
With the brackish Dorian stream. 

Like a gloomy stain 
On the emerald main, 

Alpheus rush’d behind,— 

As an eagle pursuing 
A dove to its ruin 

Down the streams of the cloudy wind. 

Under the bowers 
Where the Ocean Powers 
Sit on their pearled thrones ; 

Through the coral woods 
Of the weltering floods, 

Over heaps of unvalued stones; 
Through the dim beams 
Which amid the streams 
Weave a network of color’d light; 

And under the caves, 

Where the shadowy waves 
Are as green as the forest’s night— 
Outspeediug the shark, 

And the sword-fish dark, 


Under the ocean foam ; 

And up through the rifts 
Of the mountain-clifts 
They pass’d to their Dorian home. 

And now from their fountains 
In Enna’s mountains, 

Down one vale where the morning basks. 
Like friends once parted, 

Grown single-hearted, 

They ply their watery tasks. 

At sunrise they leap 
From their cradles steep 
In the cave of the shelving hill; 

At noontide they flow 
Through the woods below, 

And the meadows of asphodel; 

And at night they sleep 
In the rocking deep 
Beneath the Ortygian shore;— 

Like spirits that lie 
In the azure sky, 

When they love, but live no more. 

Percy Bysshe Shelley. 


Sonnet: the Lessons of Na ture. 

Of this fair volume which we World do 
name 

If we the sheets and leaves could turn 
with care, 

Of him who it corrects, and did it frame, 

We clear might read the art and wisdom 
rare: 

Find out his power which wildest powers 
doth tame, 

His providence extending everywhere, 

His justice which proud rebels doth not 
spare, 

In every page, no period of the same. 

But silly we, like foolish children, rest 

Well pleased with colour’d vellum, leaves 
of gold, 

Fair dangling ribbands, leaving what is 
best, 

On the great writer’s sense ne’er taking 
hold; 

Or it by chance we stay our minds on aught, 

It is some picture on the margin wrought. 

William Dkummomd, 







POEMS OF NATURE. 


471 


INVITATION TO lZAAK WALTON, j 

Whilst in this cold and blustering clime, 
Where bleak winds howl and tempests 
roar, 

We pass away the roughest time 
Has been of many years before; 

Whilst from the most tempestuous nooks 
The chillest blasts our peace invade, 

And by great rains our smallest brooks 
Are almost navigable made; 

Whilst all the ills are so improved 
Of this dead quarter of the year, 

That even you, so much beloved, 

We would not now wish with us here,— 

In this estate, I say, it is 
Home comfort to us to suppose 
That in a better clime than this 

You, our dear friend, have more repose; 

And some delight to me the while, 

Though Nature now does weep in rain, 
To think that I have seen her smile, 

And haply may I do again. 

If the all-ruling Power please 
We live to see another May, 

We’ll recompense an age of these 
Foul days in one fine fishing-day. 

We then shall have a day or tw r o, 

Perhaps a week, wherein to try 
What the best master’s hand can do 
With the most deadly killing fly— 

A day with not too bright a beam; 

A warm, but not a scorching sun; 

A southern gale to curl the stream ; 

And, master, half our work is done. 

Then, whilst behind some bush we wait 
The scaly people to betray, 

We’ll prove it just, with treacherous bait, 
To make the preying trout our prey ; 

And think ourselves, in such an hour, 
Happier than those, though not so high, 
Who, like leviathans, devour 
Of meaner men the smaller fry. 

This, my best friend, at my poor home, 
Shall be our pastime and our theme; 

But then, should you not deign to come, 
You make all this a flattering dream. 

Charles Cotton. I 


The Angler’s Wish. 

I in these flowery meads would be, 

These crystal streams should solace me; 
To whose harmonious bubbling noise 
I, with my angle, would rejoice, 

Sit here, and see the turtle-dove 
Court his chaste mate to acts of love; 

Or, on that bank, feel the west wind 
Breathe health and plenty; please my 
mind, 

To see sweet dewdrops kiss these flowers, 
And then wash’d off’ by April showers; 
Plere, hear my kenna sing a song: 
There, see a blackbird feed her young, 

Or a laverock build her nest; 

Here, give my weary spirits rest, 

And raise my low-pitch’d thoughts above 
Earth, or what poor mortals love. 

Thus, free from lawsuits, and the 
noise 

Of princes’ courts, I would rejoice; 

Or, with my Bryan and a book, 

Loiter long days near Shawford brook ; 
There sit by him, and eat my meat; 

There see the sun both rise and set; 

There bid good-morning to next day; 
There meditate my time away; 

And angle on; and beg to have 
A quiet passage to a welcome grave. 

Izaak Walton. 

Verses in Praise of Angling. 

Quivering fears, heart-tearing cares, 
Anxious sighs, untimely tears, 

Fly, fly to courts, 

Fly to fond worldlings’ sports, 

| Where strain’d sardonic smiles are glosing 
still, 

And Grief is forced to laugh against her 
will, 

Where mirth’s but mummery, 

And sorrows only real be. 

Fly from our country pastimes, fly, 

Sad troops of human misery, 

Come, serene looks, 

Clear as the crystal brooks. 









( 


FIRESIDE ENCYCLOPAEDIA OF POETRY. 


472 


Or the pure azured heaven that smiles to 

see 

The rich attendance on our poverty; 

Peace and a secure mind, 

Which all men seek, we only find. 

Abusfed mortals! did you know 
Where joy, heart’s ease, and comforts grow, 
You’d scorn proud towers, 

And seek them in these bowers, 
Where winds, sometimes, our woods per¬ 
haps may shake, 

But blustering care could never tempest 
make; 

Nor murmurs e’er come nigh us, 
Saving of fountains that glide by us. 

Here’s no fantastic mask nor dance, 

But of our kids that frisk and prance; 

Nor wars are seen, 

Unless upon the green 
Two harmless lambs are butting one the 
other, 

Which done, both bleating run, each to 
his mother; 

And wounds are never found, 

Save what the ploughshare gives the 
ground. 

Here are no entrapping baits 
To hasten too, too hasty fates; 

Unless it be 
The fond credulity 

Of silly fish, which (worldling-like) still 
look 

Upon the bait, but never on the hook; 

Nor envy, ’less among 
The birds, for price of their sweet 
song. 

Go, let the diving negro seek 
For gems, hid in some forlorn creek; 

We all pearls scorn 
Save what the dewy morn 
Congeals upon each little spire of grass, 
Which careless shepherds beat down as 
they pass; 

And gold ne’er here appears, 

Save what the yellow Ceres bears. 

Blest silent groves, oh may you be, 

For ever, mirth’s best nursery ! 

May pure contents 
For ever pitch their tents 


Upon these downs, these meads, these 
rocks, these mountains; 

And peace still slumber by these purling 
fountains, 

Which we may every year 
Meet, when we come a-fishing here. 

Sir Henry Wotton. 


The Angler. 

Oh the gallant fisher’s life! 

It is the best of any: 

’Tis full of pleasure, void of strife, 
And ’tis beloved by many; 

Other joys 
Are but toys; 

Only this 
Lawful is; 

For ouV skill 
Breeds no ill, 

But content and pleasure. 

In a morning up we rise, 

Ere Aurora’s peeping ; 

Drink a cup to wash our eyes, 

Leave the sluggard sleeping; 
Then we go, 

To and fro, 

With our knacks 
At our backs, 

To such streams 
As the Thames, 

If we have the leisure. 

When we please to walk abroad 
For our recreation, 

In the fields is our abode, 

Full of delectation, 

Where, in a brook, 

With a hook— 

Or a lake,— 

Fish we take; 

There we sit 
For a bit, 

Till we fish entangle. 

We have gentles in a horn, 

We have paste and worms to». 

We can watch both night and morn, 
Suffer rain and storms too; 

None do here 
Use to swear: 




POEMS OF NATURE. 


473 


Oaths do fray 
Fish away; 

We sit still, 

Watch our quill: 

Fishers must not wrangle. 

If the sun’s excessive heat 
Make our bodies swelter, 

To an osier hedge we get, 

For a friendly shelter; 

Where—in a dyke, 

Perch or pike, 

Roach or dace, 

We do chase, 

Bleak or gudgeon, 

Without grudging; 

We are still contented. 

Or, we sometimes pass an hour 
Under a green willow 
That defends us from a shower, 
Making earth our pillow; 

Where we may 
Think and pray, 

Before death 
Stops our breath; 

Other joys 
Are but toys, 

And to be lamented. 

John Chalkhill. 


The Angler's Trysting- Tree. 

Sing, sweet thrushes, forth and sing! 

Meet the morn upon the lea; 

Are the emeralds of the spring 
On the angler’s trysting-tree ? 

Tell, sweet thrushes, tell to me! 

Are there buds on our willow tree ? 
Buds and birds on our trysting-tree ? 

Sing, sweet thrushes, forth and sing! 

Have you met the honey-bee, 

Circling upon rapid wing, 

’Round the angler’s trysting-tree ? 

Up, sweet thrushes, up and see! 

Are there bees at our willow tree ? 
Birds and bees at the trysting-tree ? 

Sing, sweet thrushes, forth and sing! 

Are the fountains gushing free? 

Is the south wind wandering 
Through the angler’s trysting-tree? 


Up, sweet thrushes, tell to me ! 

Is there wind up our willow tree? 

Wind or calm at our trysting-tree? 

Sing, sweet thrushes, forth and sing! 

Wile us with a merry glee ; 

To the flowery haunts of spring— 

To the angler’s trysting-tree. 

Tell, sweet thrushes, tell to me ! 

Are there flow’rs ’neath our willow tree? 
Spring and flowers at the trysting-tree? 

Thomas Tod Stoddart. 

Address to certain Gold- 
Fishes. 

Restless forms of living light 
Quivering on your lucid wings, 
Cheating still the curious sight 
With a thousand shadowings; 

Various as the tints of even, 

Gorgeous as the hues of heaven, 

Reflected on your native streams 
In flitting, flashing, billowy gleams! 
Harmless warriors, clad in mail 
Of silver breastplate, golden scale— 

Mail of Nature’s own bestowing, 

With peaceful radiance mildly glowing— 
Fleet are ye as fleetest galley 
Or pirate rover sent from Sallee ; 

Keener than the Tartar’s arrow, 

Sport ye in your sea so narrow. 

Was the sun himself your sire? 

Were ye born of vital fire? 

Or of the shade of golden flowers 
Such as we fetch from Eastern bowers, 

To mock this murky clime of ours ? 
Upward, downward, now ye glance, 
Weaving many a mazy dance; 

Seeming still to grow in size 
When ye would elude our eyes— 

Pretty creatures! we might deem 
Ye were happy as ye seem— 

As gay, as gamesome, and as blithe, 

As light, as loving, and as lithe, 

As gladly earnest in your play, 

As when ye gleam’d in far Cathay; 

And yet since on this hapless earth 
There’s small sincerity in mirth, 

And laughter oft is but an art 
To drown the outcry of the heart; 





474 


FIRESIDE ENCYCLOPAEDIA OF POETRY. 


It may be, that your ceaseless gambols, 
Your wheelings, dartings, divings, rambles, 
Your restless roving round and round 
The circuit of your crystal bound— 

Is but the task of weary pain, 

An endless labor, dull and vain ; 

And while your forms are gayly shining, 
Your little lives are inly pining! 

Nay—but still I fain Avould dream, 

That ye are happy as ye seem. 

Hartley Coleridge. 

The Chambered Nautilus. 

This is the ship of pearl, which, poets feign, 
Sails the unshadow’d main,— 

The venturous bark that flings 
On the sweet summer wind its purpled 
wings 

In gulfs enchanted, where the Siren sings, 
And coral reefs lie bare, 

Where the cold sea-maids rise to sun their 
streaming hair. 

Its webs of living gauze no more unfurl ; 
Wreck’d is the ship of pearl! 

And every chamber’d cell, 

Where its dim dreaming life was wont to 
dwell, 

As the frail tenant shaped his growing 
shell, 

Before thee lies reveal’d,— 

Its iris’d ceiling rent, its sunless crypt 
unseal’d! 

Year after year beheld the silent toil 
That spread his lustrous coil; 

Still, as the spiral grew, 

He left the past year’s dwelling for the new, 
Stole with soft step its shining archway 
through, 

Built up its idle door, 

Stretch’d in his last-found home, and knew 
the old no more. 

Thanks for the heavenly message brought 
by thee, 

Child of the wandering sea, 

Cast from her lap, forlorn ! 

From thy dead lips a clearer note is born 
Than ever Triton blew from wreathed horn! 

While on mine ear it rings, 

Through the deep caves of thought I hear 
a voice that sings:— 


I Build thee more stately mansions, 0 my 
soul, 

As the swift seasons roll! 

Leave thy low-vaulted past! 

Let each new temple, nobler than the last, 
Shut thee from heaven with a dome more 
vast, 

Till thou at length art free, 

Leaving thine outgrown shell by life’s un¬ 
resting sea! 

Oliver Wendell Holmes. 


The Stormy Petrel. 

A thousand miles from land are we, 
Tossing about on the stormy sea— 

From billow to bounding billow cast, 

Like fleecy snow on the stormy blast. 

The sails are scatter’d abroad like weeds; 
The strong masts shake like quivering 
reeds; 

The mighty cables and iron chains, 

The hull, which all earthly strength dis¬ 
dains,— 

They strain and they crack; and hearts 
like stone 

Their natural, hard, proud strength disown. 

Up and down !—up and down ! 

From the base of the wave to the billow’s 
crown, 

And amidst the flashing and feathery 
foam 

The stormy petrel flnds a home,— 

A home, if such a place may be 

For her who lives on the wide, wide sea, 

On the craggy ice, in the frozen air, 

And only seeketh her rocky lair 
To warm her young, and to teach them to 
spring 

At once o’er the waves on their stormy 
wing! 

O’er the deep !—o’er the deep! 

Where the whale and the shark and the 
swordfish sleep,— 

Outflying the blast and the driving rain, 
The petrel telleth her tale—in vain ; 

For the mariner curseth the warning bird 
Which bringeth him news of the storm 
unheard! 








POEMS OF NATURE. 


475 


Ah ! thus does the prophet of good or ill 
Meet hate from the creatures he serveth 
still; 

Yet he ne’er falters,—so, petrel, spring 
Once more o’er the waves on thy stormy 
wing! 

Bryan Waller Procter 
(Barry Cornwall). 


The Little Beach-Bird. 

Thou little bird, thou dweller by the 
sea, 

Why takest thou its melancholy voice, 
And with that boding cry 
O’er the waves dost thou fly ? 

Oh ! rather, bird, with me 
Through the fair land rejoice ! 


To a Waterfowl. 

Whither, ’midst falling dew, 

While glow the heavens with the last 
steps of day, 

Far, through their rosy depths, dost thou 
pursue 

Thy solitary way? 

Vainly the fowler’s eye 
Might mark thy distant flight to do thee 
wrong, 

As, darkly seen against the crimson sky, 

Thy figure floats along. 

Seek’st thou the plashy brink 
Of weedy lake, or marge of river wide, 

Or where the rocking billows rise and 
sink 

On the chafed ocean side ? 


Thy flitting form comes ghostly dim and 
pale, 

As driven by a beating storm at sea ; 

Thy cry is weak and scared, 

As if thy mates had shared 
The doom of us. Thy wail— 

What does it bring to me ? 

Thou call’st along the sand, and haunt’st j 
the surge, 

Restless and sad ; as if, in strange accord i 
With the motion and the roar 
Of waves that drive to shore, 

One spirit did ye urge— 

The Mystery—the Word. 

Of thousands thou both sepulchre and \ 
paH, 

Old Ocean, art! A requiem o’er the j 
dead 

From out thy gloomy cells 
A tale of mourning tells— 

Tells of man’s woe and fall, 

His sinless glory fled. 

Then turn thee, little bird, and take thy 
flight 

Where the complaining sea shall sadness 
bring 

Thy spirit never more. 

Come, quit with me, the shore 
For gladness, and the light 
Where birds of summer sing. 

Richard Henry Dana. ! 


There is a Power whose care 

Teaches thy way along that pathless 
coast, 

The desert and illimitable air, 

Lone wandering, but not lost. 

All day thy wings have fann’d, 

At that far height, the cold, thin atmo¬ 
sphere, 

Yet stoop not, weary, to the welcome 
land, 

Though the dark night is near. 

And soon that toil shall end ; 

Soon shalt thou find a summer home and 
rest, 

And scream among thy fellows; reeds 
shall bend 

Soon o’er thy shelter’d nest. 

Thou’rt gone, the abyss of heaven 

Hath swallow’d up thy form; yet, on my 
heart, 

Deeply hath sunk the lesson thou hast 
given, 

And shall not soon depart. 

He who, from zone to zone, 

Guides through the boundless sky thy cer¬ 
tain flight, 

In the long way that I must tread alone, 

Will lead my steps aright. 

William Cullen Bryant. 






476 


FIRESIDE ENCYCLOPAEDIA OF POETRY. 


To a Bird 

that Haunted the Waters of Laaken 
in the Winter. 

O melancholy bird ! a winter’s day 
Thou standest by the margin of the 
pool, 

And, taught by God, dost thy whole 
being school 

To patience, which all evil can allay. 

God has appointed thee the fish thy prey, 
And given thyself a lesson to the fool 
Unthrifty, to submit to moral rule, 

Aud his unthinking course by thee to 
weigh. 

There need not schools nor the profes¬ 
sor’s chair, 

Though these be good, true wisdom to im¬ 
part ; 

He who has not enough for these to 
spare 

Of time or gold, may yet amend his heart, 
And teach his soul by brooks and rivers 
fair,— 

Nature is always wise in every part. 

Lord Thurlow. 


Song. 

The lark now leaves his watery nest, 

And, climbing, shakes his dewy wings ; 

He takes this window for the east; 

And to implore your light, he sings,— 

Awake, awake, the morn will never rise, 

Till she can dress her beauty at your 
eyes. 

The merchant bows unto the seaman’s 
star, 

The ploughman from the sun his season 
takes, 

But still the lover wonders what they are 
Who look for day before his mistress 
wakes. 

Awake, awake, break through your veils 
of lawn, 

Then draw your curtains, and begin the 
dawn. 

Sir William L> avion ant. 


PHILOMELA. 

! Hark ! ah, the nightingale! 

The tawny-throated! 

Hark! from that moonlit cedar what a 
burst! 

What triumph ! hark—what pain ! 

0 wanderer from a Grecian shore, 

Still—after many years, in distant lands— 
Still nourishing in thy bewilder’d brain 
That wild, unquench’d, deep-sunken, old- 
world pain— 

Say, will it never heal? 

And can this fragrant lawn, 

With its cool trees, and night, 

And the sweet, tranquil Thames, 

And moonshine, and the dew, 

To thy racked heart and brain 
Afford no balm ? 


Dost thou to-night behold, 

Here, through the moonlight on this Eng¬ 
lish grass, 

The unfriendly palace in the Thracian 
wild? 

Dost thou again peruse, 

With hot cheeks and sear’d eyes, 

The too clear web, and thy dumb sister’s 
shame ? 

Dost thou once more assay 
Thy flight; and feel come over thee, 

Poor fugitive, the feathery change 
Once more; and once more seem to make 
resound 

With love and hate, triumph and agony, 
Lone Daulis, and the high Cephissian 
vale? 


Listen, Eugenia— 

How thick the bursts come crowding 
through the leaves! 

Again—thou hearest? 

Eternal passion! 

Eternal pain! 

Matthew Arnold. 

Song. 

’Tis sweet to hear the merry lark, 
That bids a blithe good-morrow; 






POEMS OF NATURE. 


477 


But sweeter to hark, in the twinkling dark, 
To the soothing song of sorrow. 

0 nightingale ! What doth she ail ? 

And is she sad or jolly ? 

For ne’er on earth was sound of mirth 
So like to melancholy. 

The merry lark, he soars on high, 

No worldly thought o’ertakes him ; 

He sings aloud to the clear blue sky, 

And the daylight that awakes him. 

As sweet a lay, as loud, as gay, 

The nightingale is trilling ; 

With feeling bliss, no less than his, 

Her little heart is thrilling. 

Yet ever and anon, a sigh 

Peers through her lavish mirth ; 

For the lark’s bold song is of the sky, 
And her’s is of the earth. 

By night and day, she tunes her lay, 

To drive away all sorrow ; 

For bliss, alas ! to-night must pass, 

And woe may come to-morrow. 

Hartley Coleridge. 


To a Skylark. 

Up with me ! up with me into the clouds ! 
For thy song, Lark, is strong ; 

Up with me, up with me into the clouds! 
Binging, singing, 

With clouds and sky about thee ringing, 

Lift me, guide me till I find 

That spot which seems so to thy mind ! 

I have walk’d through wildernesses dreary, 
And to-day my heart is weary ; 

Had I now the wings of a Faery, 

Up to thee would I fly. 

There’s madness about thee, and joy divine 
In that song of thine ; 

Lift me, guide me high and high 
To thy banciueting-place in the sky. 

Joyous as morning, 

Thou art laughing and scorning ; 

Thou hast a nest for thy love and thy rest, 
And, though little troubled with sloth, 
Drunken Lark! thou wouldst be loth 
To be such a Traveller as I. 


Happy, happy Liver, 

With a soul as strong as a mountain River 
Pouring out praise to the Almighty Giver, 
Joy and jollity be with us both ! 

William Wordsworth. 


To a Skylark. 

Ethereal Minstrel! Pilgrim of the skyi 

Dost thou despise the earth where cares 
abound ? 

Or, while the wings aspire, are heart and 
eye 

Both with thy nest upon the dewy 
ground?— 

Thy nest which thou canst drop into at 
will, 

Those quivering wings composed, that 
music still! 

To the last point of vision, and beyond, 

Mount, daring Warbler ! that love- 
prompted strain 

(’Twixt thee and thine a never-failing 
bond) 

Thrills not the less the bosom of the 
plain: 

Yet might’st thou seem, proud privilege! 
to sing 

All independent of the leafy spring. 

Leave to the Nightingale her shady wood; 

A privacy of glorious light is thine; 

Whence thou dost pour upon the world a 
flood 

Of harmony, with instinct more divine; 

Type of the wise who soar, but never 
roam; 

True to the kindred points of Heaven and 
Home! 

William Wordsworth. 


The Skylark. 

Bird of the wilderness, 

Blithesome and cumberless, 

Sweet be thy matin o’er moorland and 
lea! 

Emblem of happiness, 

Blest is thy dwelling-place— 

Oh to abide in the desert with thee i 
Wild is thy lay, and loud, 

Far in the downy cloud ; 







478 


FIRESIDE ENCYCLOPAEDIA OF POETRY. 


Love gives it energy—love gave it birth. 
Where, on thy dewy wing— 

Where art thou journeying? 

Thy lav is in heaven—thy love is on earth. 

O’er fell and fountain sheen, 

O’er moor and mountain green, 

< )’er the red streamer that heralds the day; 
Over the cloudlet dim, 

Over the rainbow’s rim, 

Musical cherub, soar, singing, away ! 

Then, when the gloaming comes, 
Low in the heather blooms, 

Sweet will thy welcome and bed of love 
be! 

Emblem of happiness, 

Blest is thy dwelling-place— 

Oh to abide in the desert with thee ! 

Jamks Hogg. 

To a Skylark. 

Hail to thee, blithe spirit— 

Bird thou never wert— 

That from heaven, or near it, 

Pourest thy full heart 
In profuse strains of unpremeditated art. 

Higher still and higher 

From the earth thou springest, 

Like a cloud of fire; 

The blue deep thou wingest, 

And singing still dost soar, and soaring 
ever singest. 

In the golden lightning 
Of the setting sun, 

O’er which clouds are bright’ning, 
Thou dost float and run; 

Like an embodied joy whose race is just 
begun. 

The pale purple even 
Melts around thy flight; 

Like a star of heaven, 

In the broad daylight 
Thou art unseen, but yet I hear thy shrill 
delight— 

Keen as are the arrows 
Of that silver sphere, 

Whose intense lamp narrows 
In the white dawn clear, 

Until we hardly see, we feel, that it is there. 


All the earth and air 
With thy voice is loud. 

As, when night is bare, 

From one lonely cloud 
The moon rains out her beams, and heaven 
is overflow’d. 

What thou art we know not; 

What is most like thee? 

From rainbow clouds there flow not 
Drops so bright to see, 

As from thy presence showers a rain of 
melody. 

Like a poet hidden 

In the light of thought, 

Singing hymns unbidden, 

Till the world is wrought 
To sympathy with hopes and fears it 
heeded not; 

Like a high-born maiden 
In a palace tower, 

Soothing her love-laden 
Soul in secret hour 

With music sweet as love, which overflows 
her bower; 

Like a glow-worm golden, 

In a dell of dew, 

Scattering unbeholden 
Its aerial hue 

Among the flowers and grass which screen 
it from the view ; 

Like a rose embower’d 
In its own green leaves, 

By warm winds deflower’d, 

Till the scent it gives 
Makes faint with too much sweet these 
heavy-winged thieves. 

Sound of vernal showers 
On the twinkling grass, 

Rain-awaken’d flowers, 

All that ever was 

Joyous and fresh and clear, thy music doth 
surpass. 

Teach us, sprite or bird, 

What sweet thoughts are thine ; 

I have never heard 
Praise of love or wine 
That panted forth a flood of rapture sc 
divine. 










POEMS OF NATURE. 


47<> 


Chorus hymeneal, 

Or triumphant chaunt, 

Match’d with thine, would be all 
But an empty vaunt,— 

A thing wherein we feel there is some 
hidden want. 

What objects are the fountains 
Of thy happy strain ? 

What fields, or waves, or mountains? 
What shapes of sky or plain ? 

What love of thine own kind? What 
ignorance of pain ? 

With thy clear, keen joyance 
Languor cannot be; 

Shadow of annoyance 
Never came near thee; 

Thou lovest, but ne’er knew love’s sad 
satiety. 

Waking, or asleep, 

Thou of death must deem 

Things more true and deep 
Than we mortals dream, 

Or how could thy notes flow in such a 
crystal stream ? 

We look before and after, 

And pine for what is not; 

Our sincerest laughter 

With some pain is fraught; 

Our sweetest songs are those that tell of 
saddest thought. 

Yet if we could scorn 
Hate and pride and fear, 

If we were things born 
Not to shed a tear, 

I know not how thy joy we ever should 
come near. 

Better than all measures 
Of delightful sound, 

Better than all treasures 
That in books are found, 

Thy skill to poet were, thou scorner of the 
ground! 

Teach me half the gladness 
That thy brain must know, 

Such harmonious madness 
From my lips would flow, 

The world should listen then, as I am lis¬ 
tening now. 

Percy Bysshe Shelley. 


I SONNET: TO THE MOCKING BIRD. 

! Winged mimic of the woods! thou motley 
fool! 

Who shall ever thy gay buffoonery de¬ 
scribe? 

Thine ever-ready notes of ridicule 

Pursue thy fellows still with jest and 
gibe: 

Wit, sophist, songster, Yorick of thy tribe, 
Thou sportive satirist of Nature’s school; 

To thee the palm of scoffing we ascribe, 
Arch-mocker and mad Abbot of Misrule I 

For such thou art by day,—but all night 
long 

Thou pour’st a soft, sweet, pensive, sol¬ 
emn strain, 

As if thou didst in this thy moonlight song 
Like to the melancholy Jacques com¬ 
plain, 

Musing on falsehood, folly, vice and wrong, 
And sighing for thy motley coat again. 

Richard Henry Wilde. 

Answer to a Child's question. 

Do you ask what the birds say ? The spar¬ 
row, the dove, 

The linnet and thrush say, “ I love and I 
love!” 

In the winter they’re silent—the wind is so 
strong; 

What it says, I don’t know, but it sings a 
loud song. 

But green leaves, and blossoms, and sunny 
warm weather, 

And singing, and loving—all come back 
together. 

But the lark is so brimful of gladness and 
love, 

The green fields below him, the blue sky 
above, 

That he sings, and he sings; and for ever 
sings he— 

“ I love my Love, and my Love loves me!” 

Samuel Taylor Coleridge. 


The Bluebird. 

When winter’s cold tempests and snows 
are no more, 

Green meadows and brown - furrowed 
fields reappearing, 






480 


FIRESIDE ENCYCLOPAEDIA OF POETRY. 


The fishermen hauling their shad to the 
shore, 

And cloud-cleaving geese to the Lakes 
are a-steering; 

When first the lone butterfly flits on the 
wing; 

When red glow the maples, so fresh and 
so pleasing, 

Oh then comes the blue-bird, the herald 
of spring! 

And hails with his warblings the charms 
of the season. 

Then loud-piping frogs make the marshes 
to ring; 

Then warm glows the sunshine, and fine 
is the weather; 

The blue woodland flowers just beginning 
to spring, 

And spicewood and sassafras budding 
together: 

Oh then to your gardens, ve housewives,re¬ 
pair ! 

Your walks border up ; sow and plant at 
your leisure; 

The blue-bird will chant from his box 
such an air, 

That all your hard toils will seem truly 
a pleasure. 

He flits through the orchard, he visits each 
tree, 

The red-flowering peach and the apple’s 
sweet blossoms; 

He snaps up destroyers wherever they be, 

And seizes the caitiffs that lurk in their 
bosoms; 

He drags the vile grub from the corn he 
devours, 

The worms from their webs where they 
riot and welter; 

His song and his services freely are ours, 

And all that he asks is in summer a 
shelter. 

The ploughman is pleased when he gleans 
in his train, 

Now searching the furrows, now mount¬ 
ing to cheer him; 

The gardener delights in his sweet simple 
strain, 

And leans on his spade to survey and to 
hear him; 


The slow-lingering schoolboys forget they’ll 
be chid, 

While gazing intent as he warbles before 
’em 

In mantle of sky-blue, and bosom so 
red, 

That each little loiterer seems to adore 
him. 

When all the gay scenes of the summer are 
o’er, 

And autumn slow enters so silent and 
sallow, 

And millions of warblers, that charmed us 
before, 

Have fled in the train of the sun-seeking 
swallow, 

The blue-bird, forsaken, yet true to his 
home, 

Still lingers, and looks for a milder to¬ 
morrow, 

Till, forced by the horrors of winter to 
roam, 

He sings his adieu in a lone note of 
sorrow. 

While spring’s lovely season, serene, dewy, 
warm, 

The green face of earth, and the pure 
blue of heaven, 

Or love’s native music have influence to 
charm, 

Or sympathy’s glow to our feelings is 
given, 

Still dear to each bosom the blue-bird shall 
be; 

His voice, like the thrillings of hope, is 
a treasure; 

For, through bleakest storms if a calm he 
but see, 

He comes to remind us of sunshine and 
pleasure! 

Alexander Wilson. 


The Thr ushs Nest. 

Within a thick and spreading hawthorn 
bush, 

That overhung a molehill large and 
round. 





POEMS OF NATURE. 


481 


1 heard from morn to morn a merry thrush 

Sing hymns of rapture, while I drank 
the sound 

With joy, and oft, an unintruding guest, 

I watch’d her secret toils from day to 
day; 

How true she warp’d the moss to form her 
nest, 

And modell’d it within with wood and 
clay. 

And by and by, like heath-bells gilt with 
dew, 

There lay her shining eggs as bright as 
flowers, 

Ink-spotted over, shells of green and blue: 

And there I witness’d in the summer 
hours 

A brood of Nature’s minstrels chirp and 

fly, 

Glad as the sunshine and the laughing 
sky. 

John Clare. 

Sonnet 

To the Redbreast. 

When that the fields put on their gay 
attire, 

Thou silent sitt’st near brake or river’s 
brim, 

Whilst the gay thrush sings loud from 
covert dim.; 

But when pale Winter lights the social 
fire, 

And meads with slime are sprent and 
ways with mire, 

Thou charm’st us with thy soft and solemn 
hymn, 

From battlement or barn, or haystack trim ; 

And now not seldom tun’st, as if for hire, 

Thy thrilling pipe to me, waiting to 
catch 

The pittance due to thy well-warbled song: 

Sweet bird, sing on ! for oft near lonely 
hatch, 

Like thee, myself have pleased the rustic 
throng, 

And oft for entrance, ’neath the peaceful 
thatch, 

Full many a tale have told and ditty 
long. 

John Bampfylde. 


Robin Redbreast. 

Good-bye, good-bye to Summer! 

For Summer’s nearly done; 

The garden smiling faintly, 

Cool breezes in the sun; 

Our thrushes now are silent, 

Our swallows flown away,— 

But Robin’s here in coat of brown, 

And scarlet breast-knot gay. 

Robin, Robin Redbreast, 

O Robin dear! 

Robin sings so sweetly 
In the falling of the year. 

Bright yellow, red, and orange, 

The leaves come down in hosts; 

The trees are Indian princes, 

But soon they’ll turn to ghosts; 

The leathery pears and apples 
Hang russet on the bough; 

It’s autumn, autumn, autumn late, 
’Twill soon be winter now. 

Robin, Robin Redbreast, 

O Robin dear! 

And what will this poor Robin do ? 

For pinching days are near. 

The fireside for the cricket, 

The wheat-stack for the mouse, 

When trembling night-winds whistle 
And moan all round the house. 

The frosty ways like iron, 

The branches plumed with snow,— 

Alas ! in winter dead and dark, 

Where can poor Robin go ? 

Robin, Robin Redbreast, 

O Robin dear! 

And a crumb of bread for Robin, 

His little heart to cheer. 

William Allingham. 

To a Nightingale. 

Sweet bird! that sing’st away the early 
hours 

Of winters past or coming, void of 
care; 

Well pleased with delights which pres¬ 
ent are, 

Fair seasons, budding sprays, sweet-smell¬ 
ing flowers— 


31 








482 


FIRESIDE ENCYCLOPAEDIA OF POETRY. 


To rocks, to springs, to rills, from leafy 
bowers 

Thou thy Creator’s goodness dost de¬ 
clare, 

And what dear gifts on thee He did not 
spare, 

A stain to human sense in sin that lowers. 

What soul can be so sick which by thy 
songs 

(Attired in sweetness) sweetly is not 
driven 

Quite to forget earth’s turmoils, spites, 
and wrongs, 

And lift a reverend eye and thought to 
Heaven! 

Sweet, artless songster! thou my mind 
dost raise 

To airs of spheres—yes, and to angels’ 
lays. 

William Drummond. 


To the Nightingale. 

Dear chorister, who from those shadows 
sends— 

Ere that the blushing morn dare show 
her light— 

Such sad lamenting strains, that night at¬ 
tends, 

Become all ear, stars stay to hear thy 
plight: 

If one whose grief e’en reach of thought 
transcends, 

Who ne’er (not in a dream) did taste 
delight, 

May thee importune who like case pre¬ 
tends, 

And seems to joy in woe, in woe’s de¬ 
spite ; 

Tell me (so may thou fortune milder try, 

And long, long, sing!) for what thou thus 
complains, 

Since winter’s gone, and sun in dappled 
sky 

Enamor’d smiles on woods and flowery 
plains ? 

The bird, as if my questions did her 
move, 

With trembling wings sigh’d forth, “ I 
love, I love.” 

William Drummond. 


TO THE NIGHTINGALE. 

O Nightingale, that on yon bloomy 
spray, 

Warblest at eve, when all the woods are 
still, 

Thou with fresh hope the lover’s heart 
dost fill, 

While the jolly hours lead on propitious 
May. 

Thy liquid notes, that close the eye of 
day, 

First heard before the shallow cuckoo’s 

bin, 

Portend success in love. Oh, if Jove’s 
will 

Have link’d that amorous power to thy 
soft lay, 

Now timely sing, ere the rude bird of 
hate 

Foretell my hopeless doom in some grove 
nigh ; 

As thou from year to year hast sung too 
late 

For my relief, yet hadst no reason why. 

Whether the Muse, or Love call thee his 
mate, 

Both them I serve, and of their train am I. 

John Milton. 

Ode to a Nightingale. 

My heart aches, and a drowsy numbness 
pains 

My sense, as though of hemlock I had 
drunk, 

Or emptied some dull opiate to the drains 

One minute past, and Lethe-ward had 
sunk. 

’Tis not through envy of thy happy lot, 

But being too happy in thy happiness, 

That thou, light-wingfed Dryad of the trees, 
In some melodious plot 

Of beechen green, and shadows number¬ 
less, 

Singest of summer in full-throated ease. 

Oh, for a draught of vintage, that hath been 

Cool’d a long age in the deep delved 
earth, 

Tasting of Flora and the country green, 

Dance, and Provencal song, and sun- 
burn’d mirth! 









POEMS OF NATURE. 


483 


Oh, for a beaker full of the warm South, 
Full of the true, the blushful Hippo- 
crene, 

With beaded bubbles winking at the brim, 
And purple-stained mouth,— 

That I might drink, and leave the world 
unseen, 

And with thee fade away into the forest dim! 

Fade far away, dissolve, and quite forget 
What thou among the leaves hast never 
known, 

The weariness, the fever, and the fret 
Here, where men sit and hear each other 
groan, 

Where palsy shakes a few sad, last gray 
hairs, 

Where youth grows pale, and spectre- 
thin, and dies, 

Where but to think is to be full of sorrow 
And leaden-eyed despairs, 

Where beauty cannot keep her lustrous 
eyes, 

Or new love pine at them beyond to-mor¬ 
row. 

Away ! away ! for I will fly to thee, 

Not charioted by Bacchus and his pards, 

But on the viewless wings of Poesy, 
Though the dull brain perplexes and re¬ 
tards : 

Already with thee ! tender is the night, 
And haply the Queen-Moon is on her 
throne, 

Cluster’d around by all her starry fays; 
But here there is no light, 

Save what from heaven is with the 
breezes blown 

Through verdurous glooms and winding 
mossy ways. 

I cannot see what flowers are at my feet, 
Nor what soft incense hangs upon the 
boughs; 

But, in embalmed darkness, guess each 
sweet 

Wherewith the seasonable month en¬ 
dows 

The grass, the thicket, and the fruit tree 
wild,— 

White hawthorn and the pastoral eglan¬ 
tine; 


Fast-fading violets, cover’d up in leaves, 
And mid-May’s eldest child, 

The coming musk-rose, full of dewy 
wine, 

The murmurous haunt of flies on summer 
eves. 

Darkling I listen, and for many a time 
I have been half in love with easeful 
Death, 

Call’d him soft names in many a musfed 
rhyme, 

To take into the air my quiet breath ; 

Now, more than ever, seems it rich to die, 
To cease upon the midnight, with no 
pain, 

While thou art pouring forth thy soul 
abroad 

In such an ecstasy! 

Still wouldst thou sing, and I have ears 
in vain,— 

To thy high requiem become a sod. 

Thou wast not born for death, immortal 
bird! 

No hungry generations tread thee down ; 

The voice I hear this passing night was 
heard 

In ancient days by emperor and clown ; 

Perhaps the selfsame song that found a 
path 

Through the sad heart of Ruth, when, 
sick for home, 

She stood in tears amid the alien corn ; 
The same that ofttimes hath 
Charm’d magic easements opening on 
the foam 

Of perilous seas, in fairy lands forlorn. 

Forlorn! the very word is like a bell 
To toll me back from thee to my sole 
self? 

Adieu ! the Fancy cannot cheat so well 
As she is famed to do, deceiving elf. 

Adieu! adieu ! thy plaintive anthem fades 
Past the near meadows, over the still 
stream, 

Up the hillside, and now ’tis buried deep 
In the next valley-glades; 

Was it a vision or a waking dream? 

Fled is that music,—do I wake or sleep ? 

John Keats. 








484 


FIRESIDE ENCYCLOPAEDIA OF POETRY. 


The Nightingale. 

As it fell upon a day 
In the merry month of May, 

Sitting in a pleasant shade 
Which a grove of myrtles made, 

Beasts did leap and birds did sing, 

Trees did grow and plants did spring, 
Everything did banish moan 
Save the nightingale alone. 

She, poor bird, as all forlorn, 

Lean’d her breast against a thorn, 

And there sung the dolefullest ditty 
That to hear it was great pity. 

Fie, fie, fie, now would she cry; 

Tereu, tereu, by and by : 

That to hear her so complain 
Scarce I could from tears refrain ; 

For her griefs so lively shown 
Made me think upon mine own. 

—Ah, thought I, thou mourn’st in vain, 
None takes pity on thy pain : 

Senseless trees, they cannot hear thee, 
Ruthless beasts, they will not cheer thee ; 
King Pandion, he is dead, 

All thy friends are lapp’d in lead : 

All thy fellow-birds do sing 
Careless of thy sorrowing : 

Even so, poor bird, like thee 
None alive will pity me. 

Richard Barnefield. 


The Songs of birds. 

What bird so sings, yet so does wail ? 

Oh ’tis the ravish’d nightingale— 

Jug, jug, jug, jug,—teru—she cries, 

And still her woes at midnight rise. 

Brave prick-song ! who is’t now we hear ? 
None but the lark so shrill and clear; 

Now at heaven’s gate she claps her wings, 
The morn not waking till she sings. 

Hark, hark ! with what a pretty throat 
Poor Robin Redbreast tunes his note; 
Hark, how the jolly cuckoos sing 
Cuckoo !” to welcome in the spring. 

John Lyly. 

On the Departure of the 
Nightingale. 

Sweet poet of the woods—a long adieu ! 
Farewell, soft minstrel of the early year! 


Ah! ’twill be long ere thou shalt sing 
anew, 

And pour thy music on “ the night’s 
dull ear.” 

Whether on Spring thy wandering flights 
await, 

Or whether silent in our groves you 
dwell, 

The pensive Muse shall own thee for her 
mate, 

And still protect the song she loves so 
well. 

With cautious step the love-lorn youth 
shall glide 

Through the long brake that shades thy 
mossy nest; 

And shepherd girls from eyes profane shall 
hide 

The gentle bird who sings of pity best: 

For still thy voice shall soft affections 
move, 

And still be dear to sorrow, and to love! 

Charlotte Smith. 


To the Cuckoo. 

0 blithe new-comer! I have heard, 

I hear thee and rejoice. 

O Cuckoo! shall I call thee Bird, 

Or but a wandering Voice ? 

While I am lying on the grass 
Thy twofold shout I hear, 

That seems to fill the whole air’s space, 
As loud far off as near. 

Though babbling only to the Vale, 

Of sunshine and of flowers, 

Thou bringest unto me a tale 
Of visionary hours. 

Thrice welcome, darling of the Spring! 
Even yet thou art to me 

No Bird: but an invisible Thing, 

A voice, a mystery; 

The same whom in my Schoolboy days 
I listen’d to; that Cry 

Which made me look a thousand ways 
In bush, and tree, and sky. 

To seek thee did I often rove 
Through woods and on the green; 





POEMS OF NATURE. 


And thou wert still a hope, a love; 
Still long’d for, never seen. 

And I can listen to thee yet; 

Can lie upon the plain 
And listen, till I do beget 
That golden time again. 

O blessed Bird! the earth we pace 
Again appears to be 
An unsubstantial, faery place* 

That is fit home for Thee ! 

William Wordsworth. 


To the Cuckoo. 

Hail, beauteous stranger of the grove! 

Thou messenger of Spring ! 

Now Heaven repairs thy rural seat, 

And woods thy welcome sing. 

Socm as the daisy decks the green, 

Thy certain voice we hear. 

Hast thou a star to guide thy path, 

Or mark the rolling year? 

Delightful visitant! with thee 
I hail the time with flowers, 

And hear the sound of music sweet 
From birds among the bowers. 

The schoolboy, wandering through the 
wood 

To pull the primrose gay, 

Starts, thy most curious voice to hear, 

And imitates thy lay. 

What time the pea puts on the bloom, 
Thou fliest thy vocal vale, 

An annual guest in other lands, 

Another Spring to hail. 

Sweet bird ! thy bower is ever green, 

Thy sky is ever clear ; 

Thou hast no sorrow in thy song, 

No Winter in thy year! 

Oh, could I fly, I’d fly with thee! 

We’d make, with joyful wing, 

Our annual visit o’er the globe, 

Attendants on the Spring. 

John Looan. 


485 

The Song of the Nightingale. 

On the crimson edge of the eve, 

By the Barada’s flute-like flow, 

When the shadow shuttles began to weave 
And the mountain airs to blow, 

With the sight of the night’s first star, 

As though it were dumb too long, 

There burst on the ear a wondrous bar 
From a spirit dowered with song. 

And swift as it swelled to a strain 
That rippled and rose and ran 

Through every chord of joy or pain 
That throbs in the heart of man, 

It told of love lightening life, 

And of sorrow’s bitter breath; 

It pealed a paean of peace from strife, 

And of triumph over death. 

And I knew it for God’s own bird, 

A prophet voice in the dark; 

The budding stars in the heavens heard, 
For they could not choose but hark. 

Then the worn earth hid its face, 

And dreamed its dream of the dawn; 

The voice of man was stilled for a space, 
But the bird sang on and on. 

Clinton Scollard. 


Song. 

Oh welcome, bat and owlet gray, 

Thus winging low your airy way ! 

And welcome, moth and drowsy fly, 

That to mine ear come humming by ! 

And welcome, shadows dim and deep, 

And stars that through the pale sky 
peep ! 

Oh welcome all! to me ye say, 

My woodland love is on her way. 

Upon the soft wind floats her hair; 

Her breath is in the dewy air ; 

Her steps are in the whisper’d sound 
That steals along the stilly ground. 

O dawn of day, in rosy bower, 

What art thou to this witching hour? 

O noon of day, in sunshine bright, 

What art thou to the fall of night ? 

Joanna Baillib. 







186 


FIRESIDE ENCYCLOPAEDIA OF POETRY. 


To the Butterfly. 

Child of the sun! pursue thy rapturous 
flight, 

Mingling with her thou lov’st in fields of 
light; 

And, where the flowers of Paradise unfold, 

Quaff fragrant nectar from their cups of 
gold. 

There shall thy wings, rich as an evening 
sky, 

Expand and shut with silent ecstasy ! 

—Yet wert thou once a worm, a thing that 
crept 

On the bare earth, then wrought a tomb 
and slept. 

And such is man ; soon from his cell of clay 

To burst a seraph in the blaze of day ! 

Samuel Rogers. 

On the Grasshopper and 
Cricket. 

The poetry of earth is never dead: 

When all the birds are faint with the hot 
sun 

And hide in cooling trees, a voice will run 

From hedge to hedge about the new-mown 
mead. 

That is the Grasshopper’s—he take^ the 
lead 

In summer luxury,—he has never done 

With his delights; for, when tired out with 
fun, 

He rests at ease beneath some pleasant 
weed. 

The poetry of earth is ceasing never: 

On a lone winter evening, when the frost 

Has wrought a silence, from the stove 
there shrills 

The Cricket’s song, in warmth increasing 
ever, 

And seems, to one in drowsiness half lost, 

The Grasshopper’s among some grassv 
hills. 

John Keats. 

To the Grasshopper and 
Cricket. 

Green little vaulter in the sunny grass, 
Catching your heart up at the feel of 
June- 


Sole voice that’s heard amidst the lazy 
noon 

When even the bees lag at the summoning 
brass; 

And you, warm little housekeeper, who 
class 

With those who think the candles come 
too soon, 

Loving the fire, and with your tricksome 
tune 

Nick the glad silent moments as they 
pass; 

O sweet and tiny cousins, that belong, 

One to the fields, the other to the 
hearth, 

Both have your sunshine: both, though 
small, are strong 

At your clear hearts; and both seem 
given to earth 

To ring in thoughtful ears this natural 
song— 

In doors and out, summer and winter. 
Mirth. 

Leigh Hunt. 

The Humble-Bee. 

Burly, dozing humble-bee, 

Where thou art is clime for me. 

Let them sail for Porto Rique, 

Far-off heats through seas to seek ;— 

I will follow thee alone, 

Thou animated torrid zone! 

Zigzag steerer, desert cheerer, 

Let me chase thy waving lines: 

Keep me nearer, me thy hearer, 

Singing over shrubs and vines. 

Insect lover of the sun, 

Joy of thy dominion ! 

Sailor of the atmosphere, 

Swimmer through the waves of air, 
Voyager of light and noon, 

Epicurean of June, 

Wait, I prithee, till I come 
Within earshot of thy hum,— 

All without is martyrdom, 

When the south wind, in May days. 
With a net of shining haze 
Silvers the horizon wall; 

And, with softness touching all, 









POEMS OF FA TURF. 


487 


Tints the human countenance 
With the color of romance ; 

And infusing subtle heats 
Turns the sod to violets,— 

Thou in sunny solitudes, 

Rover of the underwoods, 

The green silence dost displace 
With thy mellow breezy bass. 

Hot Midsummer’s petted crone, 

Sweet to me thy drowsy tone 
Tells of countless sunny hours, 

Long days, and solid banks of flowers; 
Of gulfs of sweetness without bound 
In Indian wildernesses found; 

Of Syrian peace, immortal leisure, 
Firmest cheer, and bird-like pleasure. 

Aught unsavory or unclean 
Hath my insect never seen; 

But violets, and bilberry bells, 

Maple sap, and daffodils, 

Grass with green flag half-mast high, 
Succory to match the sky, 

Columbine with horn of honey, 

Scented fern, and agrimony, 

Clover, catch-fly, adder’s-tongue, 

And brier-roses, dwelt among: 

All beside was unknown waste, 

All was picture as he pass’d. 

Wiser far than human seer, 
Yellow-breech’d philosopher! 

Seeing only what is fair, 

Sipping only what is sweet, 

Thou dost mock at fate and care, 

Leave the chaff and take the wheat. 
When the fierce north-western blast 
Cools sea and land so far and fast, 

Thou already slumberest deep ; 

Woe and want thou canst outsleep; 
Want and woe, which torture us, 

Thy sleep makes ridiculous. 

Ralph Waldo Emerson. 

Song, 

made Extempore by a Gentleman, oc¬ 
casioned by a Fly drinking out of 
his Cup of Ale. 

Busy, curious, thirsty fly, 

Drink with me, and drink as I ; 

Freely welcome to my cup, 

Could’st thou sip and sip it up. 


Make the most of life you may ; 

Life is short and wears away. 

Both alike are mine and thine, 

Hastening quick to their decline ; 
Thine’s a summer, mine no more, 
Though repeated to threescore ; 
Threescore summers, when they’re gone, 
Wilt appear as short as one. 

William Oldys. 

Sonnet to the Glow-Worm. 

Tasteful illumination of the night, 
Bright scatter’d, twinkling star of span¬ 
gled earth ! 

Hail to the nameless color’d dark and light, 
The witching nurse of thy illumined 
birth. 

In thy still hour how dearly I delight 
To rest my weary bones, from labor free; 
In lone spots out of hearing, out of sight, 
To sigh day’s smother’d pains; and 
pause on thee, 

Bedecking dangling brier and ivied tree, 

Or diamonds tipping on the grassy spear; 
Thy pale-faced glimmering light I love to 
see, 

Gilding and glistering in the dew-drop 
near: 

0 still-hour’s mate ! my easing heart sobs 
free, 

While tiny bents low bend with many 
an added tear. 

John Clare. 

To a Mouse, 

ON TURNING HER UP IN Her NeST WITH 

the Plough, November, 1785 . 

Wee, sleekit, cow’rin’, tim’rous beastie, 
Oh, what a panic’s in thy breastie ! 

Thou need na start awa’ sae hasty, j 

Wi’ bickering brattle! 

I wad be laitli to rin an’ chase thee, 

Wi’ murd’ring pattle! 

I’m truly sorry man’s dominion 
Has broken Nature’s social union, 

An’justifies that ill opinion 

Which makes thee startle 
At me, thy poor earth-born companion, 
An’ fellow-mortal! 








488 


FIRESIDE ENCYCLOPAEDIA OF POETRY 


I doubt na, whyles, but thou may thieve; 
What then ? poor beastie, thou maun live! 
A daimen icker in a thrave 
’S a sma’ request: 

I’ll get a biessin’ wi’ the lave, 

And never miss’t. 

Thy wee bit housie, too, in ruin ! 

Its silly wa’s the win’s are strewin’! 

An’ naething now to big a new ane 
O’ foggage green ! 

An’ bleak December’s winds ensuin’, 

Baith snell and keen ! 

Tliou saw the fields laid bare an’ waste, 
An’ weary winter cornin’ fast, 

An’ cozie here, beneath the blast, 

Thou thought to dwell, 

’Till, crash ! the cruel coulter past 
Out through thy cell. 

That wee bit heap o’ leaves an’ stibble 
Has cost thee mgny a weary nibble ! 

Now thou’s turn’d out, for a’ thy trouble, 
But house or hald, 

To thole the winter’s sleety dribble, 

An’ cranreuch cauld! 

But, Mousie, thou art no thy lane, 

In proving foresight may be vain : 

The best-laid schemes o’ mice an’ men 
Gang aft agley, 

An’ lea’e us naught but grief and pain, 

For promised joy. 

Still thou art blest, compared wi’ me ! 

The present only touclieth thee : 

But, och ! I backward cast my e’e 
On prospects drear! 

An’ forward, though I canna see, 

I guess an’ fear. 

Robert Burns. 

The Kitten. 

Wanton droll, whose harmless play 
Beguiles the rustic’s closing day, 

When, drawn the evening fire about, 

Sit aged crone and thoughtless lout, 

And child upon his three-foot stool, 
Waiting until his supper cool; 

And maid, whose cheek outblooms the 
rose, 

As bright the blazing fagot glows, 


Who, bending to the friendly light, 

Plies her task with busy sleight; 

Come, show thy tricks and sportive graces. 
Thus circled round with merry faces. 

Backward coil’d, and crouching low, 
With glaring eyeballs watch thy foe, 

The housewife’s spindle whirling round, 
Or thread, or straw, that on the ground 
Its shadow throws, by urchin sly 
Held out to lure thy roving eye; 

Then onward stealing, fiercely spring 
Upon the tempting, faithless thing. 

Now, wheeling round with bootless skill, 
Thy bo-peep tail provokes thee still, 

As still beyond thy curving side 
| Its jetty tip is seen to glide; 

Till, from thy centre starting far, 

Thou sidelong veer’st, with rump in air, 
Erected stiff, and gait awry, 

Like madam in her tantrums high, 
Though ne’er a madam of them all, 

Whose silken kirtle sweeps the hall, 

More varied trick and whim displays 
To catch the admiring stranger’s gaze. 

Doth power in measured verses dwell, 

All thy vagaries wild to tell? 

Ah, no! the start, the jet, the bound, 

The giddy scamper round and round, 

With leap and toss and high curvet, 

And many a w'hirling somerset 
(Permitted by the modern Muse 
Expression technical to use), 

These mock the deftest rhymester’s skill, 
But poor in art, though rich in will. 

The featest tumbler, stage-bedight, 

To thee is but a clumsy wight, 

Who every limb and sinew strains 
To do what costs thee little pains; 

For which, I trow, the gaping crowd 
Requite him oft with plaudits loud. 

But, stopp’d the while thy wanton play 
Applauses, too, thy feats repay; 

For then beneath some urchin’s hand 
With modest pride thou tak’st thy stand, 
While many a stroke of kindness glides 
Along thy back and tabby sides. 

Dilated swells thy glossy fur, 

And loudly croons thy busy purr, 

As, timing well the equal sound, 

Thy clutching feet bepat the ground, 








POEMS OF NATURE. 


480 


And all their harmless claws disclose, 
Like prickles of an early rose; 

While softly from thy whisker’d cheek 
Thy half-closed eyes peer mild and meek. 

But not alone by cottage fire 
Do rustics rude thy feats admire; 

The learned sage, whose thoughts explore 
The widest range of human lore, 

Or, with unfetter’d fancy, fly 
Through airy heights of poesy, 

Pausing, smiles wfth alter’d air 
To see thee climb his elbow-chair, 

Or, struggling on the mat below, 

Hold warfare with his slipper’d toe. 

The widow’d dame, or lonely maid, 

Who in the still but cheerless shade 
Of home unsocial spends her age, 

And rarely turns a letter’d page, 

Upon her hearth for thee lets fall 
The rounded cork or paper ball, 

Nor chides thee on thy wicked watch 
The ends of ravell’d skein to catch, 

But lets thee have thy wayward will, 
Perplexing oft her better skill. 

E’en he, whose mind of gloomy bent, 

In lonely tower or prison pent, 

Reviews the coil of former days, 

And loathes the world and all its ways, 
What time the lamp’s unsteady gleam 
Doth rouse him from his moody dream, 
Feels, as thou gambol’st round his seat, 
His heart of pride less fiercely beat, 

And smiles, a link in thee to find 
That joins it still to living kind. 

Whence hast thou, then, thou witless Puss, 
The magic power to charm us thus? 

Is it that in thy glaring eye 
And rapid movements we descry— 

Whilst we at ease, secure from ill, 

The chimney-corner snugly fill— 

A lion darting on his prey, 

A tiger at his ruthless play? 

Or is it that in thee we trace, 

With all thy varied wanton grace, 

An emblem, view’d with kindred eye, 

Of tricky, restless infancy ? 

Ah, many a lightly sportive child, 

Who hath like thee our wits beguiled, 

To dull and sober manhood grown, 

With strange recoil our hearts disown. 


And so, poor Kit, must thou endure 
When thou becom’st a cat demure, 

Full many a cuff and angry word, 
j Chased roughly from the tempting board. 

1 But yet, for that thou hast, I ween, 

So oft our favor’d playmate been ; 

Soft be the change which thou shalt prove! 
When time hath spoil’d thee of our love, 
Still be thou deem’d by housewife fat 
A comely, careful, mousing cat, 

Whose dish is, for the public good, 
Replenish’d oft with savory food. 

I Nor, when thy span of life is past, 

| Be thou to pond or dunghill cast, 

But, gently borne on good man’s spade, 
Beneath the decent sod he laid, 

And children show, with glistening eyes, 
The place where poor old Pussy lies. 

Joanna Baillie. 


The Kitten and the Falling 
Lea ves. 

That way look, my Infant, lo I 
What a pretty baby-show ! 

See the Kitten on the Wall, 

Sporting with the leaves that fall, 
Wither’d leaves—one—two—and three— 
From the lofty Elder tree ! 

Through the calm and frosty air, 

Of this morning bright and fair, 

Eddying round and round they sink 
Softly, slowly : one might think, 

From the motions that are made, 

Every little leaf convey’d 
Sylph or Faery hither tending,— 

To this lower world descending, 

Each invisible and mute, 

In his wavering parachute. 

-But the Kitten, how she starts, 

Crouches, stretches, paws, and darts! 
First at one, and then its fellow 
Just as light and just as yellow ; 

There are many now—now one— 

Now they stop, and there are none ' 

What intenseness of desire 
In her upward eye of fire! 

With a tiger-leap half way 
Now she meets the coming prey, 

Lets it go as fast, and then 
Has it in her power again 









FIRESIDE ENCYCLOPAEDIA OF POETRY. 


4D0 


Now she works with three or four, 

Like an Indian Conjuror ; 

Quick as he in feats of art, 

Far beyond in joy of heart. 

Were her antics play’d in the eye 
Of a thousand standers-by, 

Clapping hands with shout and stare, 
What would little Tabby care 
For the plaudits of the crowd ? 
Over-happy to be proud, 

Over-wealthy in the treasure 
Of her own exceeding pleasure 1 

’Tis a pretty Baby-treat; 

Nor, I deem, for me unmeet; 

Here, for neither Babe nor me, 

Other playmate can I see. 

Of the countless living things, 

That with stir of feet and wings 
(In the sun or under shade, 

Upon bough or grassy blade) 

And with busy revellings, 

Chirp and song, and murmurings, 

Made this Orchard’s narrow space, 

And this Vale so blithe a place ; 
Multitudes are swept away, 

Never more to breathe the day : 

Some are sleeping ; some in Bands 
Travell’d into distant Lands ; 

Others slunk to moor and wood, 

Far from human neighborhood ; 

And, among the Kinds that keep 
With us closer fellowship, 

With us openly abide, 

All have laid their mirth aside. 

—Where is he, that giddy Sprite, 

Blue cap, with his colors bright, 

Who was blest as bird could be, 

Feeding in the apple tree ; 

Made such wanton spoil and rout, 
Turning blossoms inside out; 

Hung with head toward the ground, 
Flutter’d, perch’d, into a round 
Bound himself, and then unbound : 
Lithest, gaudiest Harlequin! 

Prettiest Tumbler ever seen ! 

Light of heart and light of limb ; 

What is now become of him ? 

Lambs, that through the mountains went 
Frisking, bleating merriment, 

When the year was in its prime, 

They are sober’d by this time. 


If you look to vale or hill, 

If you listen, all is still, 

Save a little neighboring Rill, 

That from out the rocky ground 
Strikes a solitary sound. 

Vainly glitter hill and plain, 

And the air is calm in vain ; 

Vainly Morning spreads the lure 
Of a sky serene and pure ; 

Creature none can she decoy 
Into open sign of joy ; 

Is it that they have a fear 
Of the dreary season near ? 

Or that other pleasures be 
Sweeter even than gayety ? 

Yet, whate’er enjoyments dwell 
In the impenetrable cell 
Of the silent heart which Nature 
Furnishes to every Creature; 
Whatsoe’er we feel and know 
Too sedate for outward show, 

Such a light of gladness breaks, 

Pretty Kitten ! from thy freaks,— 
Spreads with such a living grace 
O’er my little Laura’s face ; 

Yes, the sight so stirs and charms 
Thee, Baby, laughing in my arms, 
That almost I could repine 
That your transports are not mine, 
That I do not wholly fare 
Even as ye do, thoughtless Pair ! 

And I will have my careless season 
Spite of melancholy reason, 

Will walk through life in such a way 
That, when time brings on decay, 

Now and then I may possess 
Hours of perfect gladsomeness, 

—Pleased by any random toy; 

By a Kitten’s busy joy, 

Or an Infant’s laughing eye 
Sharing in the ecstasy; 

I would fare like that or this, 

Find my wisdom in my bliss ; 

Keep the sprightly soul awake, 

And have faculties to take, 

Even from things by sorrow wrought, 
Matter for a jocund thought, 

Spite of care, and spite of grief, 

To gambol with Life’s falling Leaf. 

William Wordsworth 








POEMS OF NATURE. 


491 


The Pet Lamb. 

A Pastoral. 

The dew was falling fast, the stars began 
to blink; 

I beard a voice; it said, “ Drink, pretty 
Creature, drink 1” 

And, looking o’er the hedge, before me I 
espied 

A snow-white mountain Lamb with a 
Maiden at its side. 

No other sheep were near, the Lamb was 
all alone, 

And by a slender cord was tether’d to a 
stone; 

With one knee on the grass did the little 
Maiden kneel, 

While to that Mountain Lamb she gave its 
evening meal. 

The Lamb, while from her hand he thus 
his supper took, 

Seem’d to feast with head and ears; and 
his tail with pleasure shook. 

“ Drink, pretty Creature, drink,” she said 
in such a tone 

That I almost received her heart into my 
own. 

’Twas little Barbara Lewthwaite, a Child 
of beauty rare! 

I watch’d them with delight, they were a 
lovely pair. 

Now with her empty Can the Maiden 
turn’d away: 

But ere ten yards were gone her footsteps 
did she stay. 

Right toward the Lamb she look’d; and 
from a shady place 

I unobserved could see the workings of 
her face: 

If Nature to her tongue could measured 
numbers bring, 

Thus, thought I, to her Lamb that little 
Maid might sing: 

“What ails thee, Young One? what? 
Why pull so at thy cord? 

Is it not well with thee? well both for bed 
and board? 


Thy plot of grass is soft, and green as 
grass can be; 

Rest, little Young One, rest; what is’t that 
aileth thee ? 

“ What is it thou would’st seek ? What 
is wanting to thy heart? 

Thy limbs are they not strong? And beau 
tiful thou art: 

This grass is tender grass; these flowers 
they have no peers; 

And that green corn all day is rustling in 
thy ears! 

“ If the Sun be shining hot, do but stretch 
thy woollen chain, 

This beech is standing by, its covert thou 
canst gain; 

For rain and mountain-storms, the like 
thou needest not fear— 

The rain and storm are things that scarcely 
can come here. 

“Rest, little Young One, rest; thou hast 
forgot the day 

When my Father found thee first in places 
far away; 

Many flocks were on the hills, but thou 
wert own’d by none, 

And thy mother from thy side for ever¬ 
more was gone. 

“ He took thee in his arms, and in pity 
brought thee home: 

A blessed day for thee! then whither 
wouldst thou roam? 

A faithful Nurse thou hast; the dam that 
did thee yean 

Upon the mountain-tops no kinder could 
have been. 

“ Thou knowest that twice a day I brought 
thee in this Can 

Fresh water from the brook, as clear as 
ever ran; 

And twice in the day, when the ground is 
wet with dew, 

I bring thee draughts of milk, warm milk 
it is and new. 

“ Thy limbs will shortly be twice as stout 
as they are now, 

Then I’ll yoke thee to my cart like a pony 
in the plough; 










492 


FIRESIDE ENCYCLOPAEDIA OF POETRY. 


My Playmate tliou shalt be; and when the 
wind is cold 

Our hearth shall be thy bed, our house 
shall be thy fold. 

S~ 

“ It will not, will not rest!—Poor Creature, 
can it be 

That ’tis thy mother’s heart which is work¬ 
ing so in thee? 

Things that I know not of belike to thee 
are dear, 

And dreams of things which thou canst 
neither see nor hear. 

“Alas, the mountain-tops that look so 
green and fair! 

I’ve heard of fearful winds and darkness 
that come there; 

The little brooks that seem all pastime and 
all play, 

When they are angry, roar like Lions for 
their prey. 

“ Here thou needest not dread the raven in 
the sky ; 

Night and day thou art safe,—our cottage 
is hard by. 

Why bleat so after me ? Why pull so at 
thy chain? 

Sleep—and at break of day I will come to 
thee again!” 

—As homeward through the lane I went 
with lazy feet, 

This song to myself did I oftentimes re¬ 
peat; 

And it seem’d, as I retraced the ballad 
line by line, 

That but half of it was hers, and one half 
of it was mine. 

Again, and once again, did I repeat the 
song; 

“ Nay,” said I, “ more than half to the 
Damsel must belong, 

For she look’d with such a look, and she 
spake with such a tone, 

That I almost received her heart into my 
own.” 

Wili.iam Wordswoutii. 


The Blood Horse. 

Gamarra is a dainty steed, 

Strong, black, and of a noble breed, 

Full of fire, and full of bone, 

With all his line of fathers known; 

Fine his nose, his nostrils thin, 

But blown abroad by the pride within ! 
His mane is like a river flowing, 

And his eyes like embers glowing 
In the darkness of the night, 

And his pace as swift as light. 

Look,—how round his straining throat 
Grace and shifting beauty float; 

Sinewy strength is in his reins, 

And the red blood gallops through his 
veins,— 

Richer, redder, never ran 
Through the boasting heart of man. 

He can trace his lineage higher 
Than the Bourbon dare aspire,— 

Douglas, Guzman, or the Guelph, 

Or O’Brien’s blood itself! 

He, who hath no peer, was born 
Here, upon a red March morn; 

But his famous fathers dead 
Were Arabs all, and Arab-bred, 

And the last of that great line 
Trod like one of a race divine! 

And yet, he was but friend to one, 

Who fed him at the set of sun 

By some lone fountain fringed with green ; 

With him, a roving Bedouin, 

He lived (none else would he obey 
Through all the hot Arabian day), 

And died untamed upon the sands 
Where Balkh amidst the desert stands ! 

Bryan Waller Procter 
(Barry Cornwall). 


The High-mettled Racer. 

See the course throng’d with gazers, the 
sports are begun; 

The confusion but hear: “ I’ll bet you, 
sir.” “ Done, done!” 

Ten thousand strange murmurs resound 
far and near, 

Lords, hawkers, and jockeys assail the 
tired ear. 




poems of na rum:. 


Am 


While with neck like a rainbow, erecting 
liis crest, 

Pamper’d, prancing, and pleased, his head 
touching his breast, 

Scarcely snuffing the air, lie’s so proud and 
elate, 

'lhe high-mettled racer first starts for the 
plate. 

Now Reynard’s turn’d out, and o’er hedge 
and ditch rush 

Hounds, horses, and huntsmen, all hard at 
his brush; 

They run him at length, and they have 
him at bay, 

And by scent and by view cheat a long, 
tedious way, 

While, alike born for sports of the field 
and the course, 

Always sure to come thorough a stanch and | 
fleet horse, 

When fairly run down the fox yields up 
his breath, 

The high-mettled racer is in at the 
death. 

Grown aged, used up, and turn’d out of 
the stud, 

Lame, spavin’d, and windgall’d, but yet 
with some blood; 

While knowing postilions his pedigree 
trace, 

Tell his dam won that sweepstakes, his 
sire gain’d that race, 

And what matches he won to the ostlers 
count o’er, 

As they loiter their time at some hedge 
ale-house door, 

While the harness sore galls, and the 
spurs his sides goad, 

The high-mettled racer’s a hack on the 
road. 

Till at last, having labor’d, drudged early 
and late, 

Bow’d down by degrees, he bends on to 
his fate! 

Blind, old, lean and feeble, he tugs round 
a mill, 

Or draws sand till the sand of his hour¬ 
glass stands still ; 


And now, cold and lifeless, exposed to the 
view 

Tn the very same cart which he yesterday 
drew, 

While a pitying crowd his sad relics sur¬ 
rounds, 

The high-mettled racer is sold for the 
hounds! 

Charles Dibdin. 

The Horseback Ride. 

When troubled in spirit, when weary of 
life, 

When I faint ’neath its burdens, and shrink 
from its strife, 

When its fruits, turn’d to ashes, are mock¬ 
ing my taste, 

And its fairest scene seems but a desolate 
waste, 

Then come ye not near me, my sad heart 
to cheer 

With friendship’s soft accents or sympa¬ 
thy’s tear. 

No pity I ask, and no counsel I need, 

But bring me, oh, bring me my gallant 
young steed, 

With his high arched neck, and his nostril 
spread wide, 

His eye full of fire, and his step full of 
pride! 

As I spring to his back, as I seize the 
strong rein, 

The strength to my spirit returnetk 
again! 

The bonds are all broken that fetter’d my 
mind, 

And my cares borne away on the wings of 
the wind; 

My pride lifts its head, for a season bow’d 
down, 

And the queen in my nature now puts on 
her crown! 

Now we’re off—like the winds to the plains 
whence they came; 

And the rapture of motion is thrilling my 
frame! 

On, on speeds my courser, scarce printing 
the sod, 

Scarce crushing a daisy to mark where he 
trod ! 










494 


FIRESIDE ENCYCLOPAEDIA OF POETRY . 


On. on like a deer, when the hound’s early 
bay 

Awakes the wild echoes, away, and away! 

Still faster, still farther, he leaps at my 
cheer, 

Till the rush of the startled air whirs in 
my ear! 

Now ’long a clear rivulet lieth his track,— 

See his glancing hoofs tossing the white 
pebbles back! 

Now a glen dark as midnight—what 
matter?—we’ll down 

Though shadows are round us, and rocks 
o’er us frown; 

The thick branches shake as we’re hurry¬ 
ing through, 

And deck us with spangles of silvery dew! 

What a wild thought of triumph, that this 
girlish hand 

Such a steed in the might of his strength 
may command! 

What a glorious creature ! Ah ! glance at 
him now, 

tVs I check him a while on this green hil¬ 
lock’s brow; 

. How he tosses his mane, with a shrill joy¬ 
ous neigh, 

And paws the firm earth in his proud, 
stately play! 

Hurrah! off again, dashing on as in ire, 

Till the long, flinty pathway is flashing 
with fire! 

Ho! a ditch!—Shall we pause? No; the 
bold leap we dare, 

Like a swift-winged arrow we rush through 
the air! 

Oh, not all the pleasures that poets may 
praise, 

Not the ’wildering waltz in the ball-room’s 
blaze, 

Nor the chivalrous joust, nor the daring 

race, 

Nor the swift regatta, nor merry chase, 

N<jr the sail, high heaving waters o’er, 

Nor the rural dance on the moonlight 
shore, 

Can the wild and thrilling joy exceed 

Of a fearless leap on a fiery steed! 

Sara Jane Lippincotx 
(Grace Greenwood). 


Afar in the Desert. 

Afar in the desert I love to ride, 

With the silent Bush-boy alone by my 
side, 

When the sorrows of life the soul o’ercast. 
And, sick of the present, I cling to the 
past; 

When the eye is suffused with regretful 
tears, 

From the fond recollections of former 
years; 

And shadows of things that have long 
since fled 

Flit over the brain, like the ghosts of the 
dead: 

Bright visions of glory that vanish’d too 
soon; 

Day-dreams, that departed ere manhood’s 
noon ; 

Attachments by fate or falsehood reft; 
Companions of early days lost or left— 
And my native land—whose magical name 
Thrills to the heart like electric flame; 

The home of my childhood; the haunts 
of my prime; 

All the passions and scenes of that rap¬ 
turous time 

When the feelings were young and the 
world was new, 

Like the fresh bowers of Eden unfolding 
to view; 

All—all now forsaken—forgotten—fore¬ 
gone ! 

j And I—a lone exile remember’d of none— 
My high aims abandon’d,—my good acts 
undone— 

Aweary of all that is under the sun— 
With that sadness of heart which no 
stranger may scan, 

I fly to the desert afar from man. 

Afar in the desert I love to ride, 

With the silent Bush-boy alone by my 
side. 

When the wild turmoil of this wearisome 
life. 

With its scenes of oppression, corruption, 
and strife— 

The proud man’s frown and the base man’s 
fear— 

The scorner’s laugh, and the sufferer’s 
tear— 







POEMS OF NATURE. 


495 


And malice, and meanness, and falsehood, 
and folly, 

Dispose me to musing and dark melan¬ 
choly ; 

When my bosom is full and my thoughts 
are high, 

And my soul is sick with the bondman’s 
sigh— 

Oh ! then there is freedom, and joy, and 
pride, 

Afar in the desert alone to ride! 

There is rapture to vault on the champing 
steed, 

And to bound away with the eagle’s speed, 
With the death-fraught firelock in my 
hand— 

The only law of the Desert Land ! 

Afar in the desert I love to ride, 

With the silent Bush-boy alone by my side. 
Away—away from the dwellings of men, 
By the wild deer’s haunt, by the buffalo's 
glen; 

Bv valleys remote where the oribi plays, 
Where the gnu, the gazelle, and the hartfe- 
beest graze, 

And the kudu and eland unhunted recline 
By the skirts of gray forest o’erhung with 
wild vine; 

Where the elephant browses at peace in 
his wood, 

And the river-horse gambols unscared in 
the flood, 

And the mighty rhinoceros wallows at will 
In the fen where the wild ass is drinking 
his fill. 

Afar in the desert I love to ride, 

With the silent Bush-boy alone by my side. 
O’er the brow r n karroo, where the bleating 
cry 

Of the springbok’s fawn sounds plain¬ 
tively ; 

And the timorous quagga’s shrill whistling 
neigh 

Is heard by the fountain at twilight gray ; 
Where the zebra wantonly tosses his 
mane, 

With wild hoof scouring the desolate 
plain ; 

And the fleet-footed ostrich over the waste 
Speeds like a horseman who travels in 
haste, 


Hieing away to the home of her rest, 
Where she and her mate have scoop’d 
their nest, 

Far hid from the pitiless plunderer’s 
view 

In the pathless depths of the parch’d 
karroo. 

Atar in the desert I love to ride, 

With the silent Bush-boy alone by my 
side. 

Away—away—in the wilderness vast 
Where the white man’s foot hath never 
pass’d, 

And the quiver’d Coranna or Bechuan 
Hath rarely cross’d with his roving clan : 
A region of emptiness howling and drear, 
Which man hath abandon’d from famine 
and fear; 

Which the snake and the lizard inhabit 
alone, 

With the twilight bat from the yawning 
stone; 

Where grass, nor herb, nor shrub takes 
root, 

Save poisonous thorns that pierce the 
foot; 

And the bitter melon for food and drink, 

Is the pilgrim’s fare by the salt lake’s 
brink; 

A region of drought, where no river glides, 
Nor rippling brook with osier’d sides; 
Where sedgy pool, nor bubbling fount, 

Nor tree, nor cloud, nor misty mount, 
Appears to refresh the aching eye ; 

But the barren earth and the burning 

sky, 

And the blank horizon, round and round, 
Spread—void of living sight or sound. 

And here, while the night-winds round me 
sigh, 

And the stars burn bright in the midnight 
sky, 

As I sit apart by the desert stone, 

Like Elijah at Horeb’s cave, alone, 

“ A still small voice ” comes through the 
wild 

(Like a father consoling his fretful child), 
Which banishes bitterness, wrath, and 
fear, 

Saying—Man is distant, but God is near! 

Thomas Pringle. 








490 


FIRESIDE ENCYCLOPAEDIA OF POETRY. 


The Arab’s Farewell to his 
Horse. 

My beautiful! my beautiful! that standest 
meekly by, 

With thy proudly arch’d and glossy neck, 
and dark and fiery eye, 

Fret not to roam the desert now, with all 
thy winged speed; 

I may not mount on thee again,—thou’rt 
sold, my Arab steed ! 

Fret not with that impatient hoof,—snuff 
not the breezy wind,— 

The farther that thou fliest now, so far am 
I behind: 

The stranger hath thy bridle-rein,—thy 
master hath his gold,— 

Fleet-limb’d and beautiful, farewell; 
thou’rt sold, my steed, thou’rt sold. 

Farewell! those free, untired limbs full 
many a mile must roam, 

To reach the chill and wintry sky which 
clouds the stranger’s home ; 

Some other hand, less fond, must now thy 
corn and bread prepare, 

The silky mane, I braided once, must be 
another’s care! 

The morning sun shall dawn again, but 
never more with thee 
Shall I gallop through the desert paths, 
where we were wont to be ; 

Evening shall darken on the earth, and o’er 
the sandy plain 

Some other steed, with slower step, shall 
bear me home a,gain. 

Yes, thou must go! the wild, free breeze, 
the brilliant sun and sky, 

Thy master’s home,—from all of these my 
exiled one must fly; 

Thy proud dark eye will grow less proud, 
thy step become less fleet, 

And vainly shalt thou arch thy neck, thy 
master’s hand to meet. 

Only in sleep shall I behold that dark eye, 
glancing bright;— 

Only in sleep shall hear again that step so 
firm and light; 

And when I raise my dreaming arm to 
check or cheer thy speed, 

Then must I, starting, wake to feel— 
thou’rt sold, my Arab steed! 


Ah ! rudely, then, unseen bv me, some 
cruel hand may chide, 

Till foam-wreaths lie, like crested waves, 
along thy panting side: 

And the rich blood that’s in thee swells, in 
thy indignant pain, 

Till careless eyes, which rest on thee, may 
count each started vein. 

Will they ill use thee? If I thought—but 
no, it cannot be,— 

Thou art so swift, yet easy curb’d; so gen¬ 
tle, yet so free; 

And yet, if haply, when thou’rt gone, my 
lonely heart should yearn,— 

Can the hand which casts thee from it now 
command thee to return ? 

Return ! alas ! my Arab steed ! what shall 
thy master do, 

When thou, who wast his all of joy, hast 
vanish’d from his view ? 

When the dim distance cheats mine eye, 
and through the gathering tears, 

Thy bright form, for a moment, like the 
false mirage appears; 

Slow and unmounted shall I roam, with 
weary step alone, 

Where, with fleet step and joyous bound, 
thou oft hast borne me on ; 

And sitting down by that green well, I’ll 
pause and sadly think, 

“ It was here he bow’d his glossy neck 
when last I saw him drink!” 

When last I saw thee drink ! —Away ! the 
fever’d dream is o’er,— 

I could not live a day, and know that we 
should meet no more! 

They tempted me, my beautiful!—for 
hunger’s power is strong,— 

They tempted me, my beautiful! but I 
have loved too long. 

Who said that I had given thee up ? who 
said that thou wast sold? 

’Tis false,—’tis false! my Arab steed! I 
fling them back their gold ! 

Thus, thus, I leap upbn thy back, and scour 
the distant plains; 

Away ! who overtakes us now shall claiu* 
thee for his pains ! 

Caroline Norton- 









POEMS OF NATURE. 


497 


The Trooper to his Mare. 

Old girl that has borne me far and fast 
On pawing hoofs that were never loath, 

Our gallop to-day may be the last 

For thee, or for me, or perhaps for both! 

As I tighten your girth do you nothing 
daunt ? 

Do you catch the hint of our forming line? 

And now the artillery move to the front, 
Have you never a qualm,. Bay Bess of 
mine ? 

It is dainty to see you sidle and start 
As you move to the battle’s cloudy 
marge, 

And to feel the swells of your wakening 
heart 

When our sonorous bugles sound a 
charge; 

At the scream of the shell and the roar of 
the drum 

You feign to be frighten’d with roguish 
glance; 

But up the green slopes where the bullets 
hum, 

Coquettishly, darling, I’ve known you 
dance. 

Your skin is satin, your nostrils red, 

Your eyes are a bird’s, or a loving 
girl’s; 

And from delicate fetlock to stately head 
A throbbing vein-cordage around you 
curls; 

O joy of my heart! if you they slay, 

For triumph or rout I little care, 

For there isn’t in all the wide valley to-day 
Such a dear little bridle-wise, thorough¬ 
bred mare ! Charles G. Halpine. 

A-Hunting we will Go. 

The dusky night rides down the sky, 
And ushers in the morn : 

The hounds all join in glorious cry, 

The huntsman winds his horn. 

And a-hunting we will go. 

The wife around her husband throws 
Her arms, and begs his stay: 

1 My dear, it rains, and hails, and snow r s, 
You will not hunt to-day.” 

But a-hunting we will go. 


Away they fly to ’scape the rout, 

Their steeds they soundly switch ; 
Some are thrown in and some thrown out, 
And some thrown in the ditch. 

Yet a-hunting we will go. 

Sly Reynard now like lightning flies, 
And sweeps across the vale; 

And when the hounds too near he spies. 
He drops his bushy tail. 

Then a-hunting we will go. 

Fond Echo seems to like the sport, 

And join the jovial cry ; 

The woods, the hills, the sound retort, 
And music fills the sky 

When a-hunting w r e do go. 

At last his strength to faintness worn. 
Poor Reynard ceases flight; 

Then hungry, homeward we return, 

To feast away the night. 

And a-drinkiug we do go. 

Ye jovial hunters, in the morn 
Prepare them for the chase; 

Rise at the sounding of the horn, 

And health with sport embrace 

When a-hunting we do go. 

Henry Fielding. 

To my Horse. 

With a glancing eye and curving mane 
He neighs and champs on the bridle-rein; 
One spring, and his saddled back I press, 
And ours is a common happiness ! 

’Tis the rapture of motion ! a hurrying 
cloud 

When the loosen’d winds are breathing 
loud:— 

A shaft from the painted Indian’s bow, 

A bird—in the pride of speed we go. 

Dark thoughts that haunt me, where are 
ye now 7 ? 

While the cleft air gratefully cools my 
brow, 

And the dizzy earth seems reeling by, 

And naught is at rest but the arching skyj 
And the tramp of my steed, so swift and 
strong, 

Is dearer than fame and sweeter than song! 


32 







FIRESIDE ENCYCLOPAEDIA OF POETRY. 


498 


There is life in the breeze as we hasten 
on; 

With each bound some care of earth has 
y gone, 

And the languid pulse begins to play, 

And the night of my soul is turn’d to day; 
A richer verdure the earth o’erspreads, 
Sparkles the streamlet more bright in the 
meads; 

And its voice to the flowers that bend 
above 

Is soft as the whisper of early love; 

With fragrance spring flowers have bur¬ 
den’d the air, 

And the blue-bird and robin are twittering 
clear. 

Lovely tokens of gladness, I mark’d ye 
not 

When last I roam’d o’er this self-same 
spot. 

Ah! then the deep shadows of sorrow’s 
mien 

Fell, like a blight, on the happy scene; 
And Nature, with all her love and grace, 
In the depths of the spirit could find no 
place. 

So the vex’d breast of the mountain-lake, 
When wind and rain mad revelry make, 
Turbid and gloomy, and wildly tost, 
Retain no trace of the beauty lost. 

But when through the moist air, bright 
and warm, 

The sun looks down with his golden 
charm, 

And clouds have fled, and the wind is 
lull, 

Oh ! then the changed lake, how beautiful! 

The glistening trees, in their shady ranks, 
jAnd the ewe with its lamb along the 
banks, 

And the kingfisher perch’d on the with¬ 
er’d bough, 

And the pure blue heaven all pictured 
below! 

Bound proudly, my steed, nor bound proud¬ 
ly in vain, 

Since thy master is now himself again. 
And thine be the praise when the leech’s 
power 

Is idle, to conquer the darken’d hour, 


By the might of the sounding hoof to win 
Beauty without and joy within ; 

Beauty else to my eyes unseen, 

And joy, that then had a stranger been. 

Author Unknown. 


The Tiger. 

Tigek ! tiger! burning bright, 

In the forest of the night, 

What immortal hand or eye 
Could frame thy fearful symmetry ? 

In what distant deeps or skies 
Burn’d the ardor of thine eyes ? 

On what wings dare he aspire? 

What the hand dare seize the fire? 

And what shoulder, and what art, 

Could twist the sinews of thy heart ? 
And when thy heart began to beat, 
What dread hand forged thy dread feet? 

What the hammer, what the chain ? 

In what furnace was thy brain? 

What the anvil; what dread grasp 
Dare its deadly terrors clasp ? 

When the stars threw down their spears, 
And water’d heaven with their tears, 
Did He smile His work to see ? 

Did He who made the lamb make thee ? 

Tiger! tiger! burning bright, 

In the forest of the night, 

What immortal hand or eye 
Dare frame thy fearful symmetry? 

William Blake. 


The Hunter of the Prairies. 

Ay, this is freedom !—these pure skies 
Were never stain’d with village smoke ; 
The fragrant wind, that through them 
flies, 

Is breathed from wastes by plough urn 
broke. 

Here, with my rifle and my steed, 

And her who left the world for me, 

I plant me, where the red-deer feed 
In the green desert—and am free. 








POEMS OF NATURE. 499 


For here the fair savannas know 
No barriers in the bloomy grass; 
Wherever breeze of heaven may blow, 

' Or beam of heaven may glance, I pass. 
In pastures, measureless as air, 

The bison is my noble game; 

The bounding elk, whose antlers tear 
The branches, falls before my aim. 

Mine are the river-fowl that scream 
From the long stripe of waving sedge ; 
The bear that marks my weapon’s gleam 
Hides vainly in the forest’s edge; 

In vain the she-wolf stands at bay; 

The brinded catamount, that lies 
High in the boughs to watch his prey, 
Even in the act of springing dies. 

With what free growth the elm and plane 
Fling their huge arms across my way, 
Gray, old, and cumber’d with a train 
Of vines, as huge, and old, and gray! 
Free stray the lucid streams, and find 
No taint in these fresh lawns and 
shades; 

Free spring the flowers that scent the 
wind 

Where never scythe has swept the 
glades. 

Alone the Fire, when frost-winds sere 
The heavy herbage of the ground, 
Gathers his annual harvest here, 

With roaring like the battle’s sound, 
And hurrying flames that sweep the 
plain, 

And smoke-streams gushing up the sky. 
I meet the flames with flames again, 

And at my door they cower and die. 

Here, from dim woods, the aged Past 
Speaks solemnly; and I behold 
The boundless Future in the vast 
And lonely river, seaward roll’d. 

Who feeds its founts with rain and dew ? 

Who moves, I ask, its gliding mass, 

And trains the bordering vines whose blue 
Bright clusters tempt me as I pass ? 

Broad are these streams—my steed obeys, 
Plunges, and bears me through the tide : 
Wide are these woods—I thread the maze 
Of giant stems, nor ask a guide 


I hunt till day’s last glimmer dies 
O’er woody vale and grassy height; 
And kind the voice and glad the eyes 
That welcome my return at night. 

William Cullen Bryant 


Folding the Flocks. 

Shepherds all, and maidens fair, 

Fold your flocks up ; for the air 
’Gins to thicken, and the sun 
Already his great course hath run. 

See the dewdrops, how they kiss 
Every little flower that is; 

Hanging on their velvet heads, 

Like a string of crystal beads. 

See the heavy clouds low falling 
And bright Hesperus down calling 
The dead night from under ground ; 

At whose rising, mists unsound, 

Damps and vapors, fly apace, 

And hover o’er the smiling face 
Of these pastures; where they come. 
Striking dead both bud and bloom. 
Therefore from such danger lock 
Every one his lovfed flock ; 

And let your dogs lie loose without, 

Lest the wolf come as a scout 
From the mountain and, ere day, 

Bear a lamb or kid away ; 

Or the crafty, thievish fox 
Break upon your simple flocks. 

To secure yourself from these, 

Be not too secure in ease; 

So shall you good shepherds prove, 

And deserve your master’s love. 

Now, good-night! may sweetest slumbers 
And soft silence fall in numbers 
On your eyelids. So farewell: 

Thus I end my evening knell. 

Beaumont and Fletcher. 


The Retirement. 

Farewell, thou busy world, and may 
We never meet again; 

Here I can eat, and sleep, and pray, 
And do more good in one short day 
Than he who his whole age out-wears 
Upon the most conspicuous theatres, 
Where naught but vanity and vice appears. 









500 


FIRESIDE ENCYCLOPEDIA OF POETRY. 


Good God ! how sweet are all things here ! 
How beautiful the fields appear ! 

How cleanly do we feed and lie ! 

Lord! what good hours do we keep ! 

How quietly we sleep ! 

What peace, what unanimity ! 

How innocent from the lewd fashion 
Is all our business, all our recreation! 


The rapid Garonne and the winding 
Seine 

Are both too mean, 

Beloved Dove, with thee 
To vie priority; 

Nay, Tame aud Isis, when conjoined, sub¬ 
mit, 

And lay their trophies at thy silver feet. 


Oh, how happy here’s our leisure ! 

Oh, how innocent our pleasure ! 

O ye valleys ! O ye mountains ! 

O ye groves, and crystal fountains ! 

How I love at liberty 
By turns to come and visit ye ! 

Dear solitude, the soul’s best friend, 

That man acquainted with himself dost 
make, 

And all his Maker’s wonders to intend, 
With thee I here converse at will 
And would be glad to do so still, 

For it is thou alone that keep’st the soul 
awake. 

How calm and quiet a delight 
Is it, alone 

To read, and meditate, and write, 

By none offended, and offending none ! 

To walk, ride, sit, or sleep at one’s own 
ease; 

And, pleasing a man’s self, none other to 
displease. 

O my helovfed nymph, fair Dove, 

Princess of rivers, how I love 
Upon thy flowery banks to lie, 

And view thy silver stream, 

When gilded by a Summer’s beam ! 

And in it all thy wanton fry 
Playing at liberty, 

And with my angle upon them 
The all of treachery 
I ever learn’d industriously to try ! 

Such streams Rome’s yellow Tiber cannot i 
show, 

The Iberian Tagus, or Ligurian Po ; 

The Maese, the Danube, and the Rhine, 

Are puddle-water, all, compared with 
thine ; 

And Loire’s pure streams yet too polluted 
are 

With thine, much purer, to compare; 


O my belovfed rocks that rise 
To awe the earth and brave the skies, 
From some aspiring mountain’s crown 
How dearly do I love, 

Giddy with pleasure, to look down, 

And, from the vales, to view the noble 
heights above! 

O my beloved caves! from dog-star’s 
heat, 

And all anxieties, my safe retreat; 

What safety, privacy, what true delight, 

In the artificial night 

Your gloomy entrails make, 

Have I taken, do I take ! 

How oft, when grief has made me fly, 

To hide me from society 

E’en of my dearest friends, have I, 

In your recesses’ friendly shade, 

All my sorrows open laid, 

And my most secret woes entrusted to your 
privacy! 

Lord ! would men let me alone. 

What an over-happy one 
Should I think myself to be, 

Might I in this desert place 
(Which most men in discourse disgrace) 
Live but undisturb’d and free ! 

Here, in this despised recess, 

Would I, maugre Winter’s cold, 

And the Summer’s worst excess, 

Try to live out to sixty full years old ; 
And, all the while, 

Without an envious eye 
On any thriving under Fortune’s smile, 
Contented live, and then contented die. 

Charles Cotton. 

The Question. 

I dream’d that as I wander’d by the way 
Bare Winter suddenly was changed to 
Spring, 







POEMS OF NATURE. 


501 


And gentle odors led my steps astray, 
Mix’d with a sound of w r aters murmuring 

Along a shelving bank of turf, which lay 
^ Under a copse, and hardly dared to fling 

Its green arms round the bosom of the 
stream, 

But kiss’d it and then fled, as thou might- 
est in dream. 

There grew' pied w T ind-flowers and violets, 
Daisies, those pearl’d Arcturi of the 
earth, 

The constellated flow T er that never sets ; 
Faint ox-lips; tender blue-bells, at 
whose birth 

The sod scarce heaved; and that tall 
flower that wets 

Its mother’s face with heaven-collected 
tears, 

When the low wind, its playmate’s voice, 
it hears. 

And in the warm hedge grew lush eglan¬ 
tine, 

Green cow-bind and the moonlight-col- 
or’d may, 

And cherry-blossoms, and white cups, 
whose w r ine 

Was the bright dew yet drain’d not by 
the day ; 

And wild roses, and ivy serpentine, 

With its dark buds and leaves, wander¬ 
ing astray; 

And flowers azure, black, and streak’d with 
gold, 

Fairer than any waken’d eyes behold. 

And nearer to the river’s trembling edge 
There grew 7 broad flag-flowers, purple 
prankt w r ith white, 

And starry river-buds among the sedge, 
And floating w r ater-lilies, broad and 
bright, 

< Which lit the oak that overhung the hedge 
With moonlight beams of their own 
watery light; 

And bulrushes, and reeds of such deep 
green 

As soothed the dazzled eye with sober 
sheen. 

Methought that of these visionary flowers 
I made a nosegay, bound in such a way 


That the same hues, which in their natural 
bowers 

Were mingled or opposed, the like array 
Kept these imprison’d children of the 
Hours 

Within my hand,—and then, elate and 

gay, 

I hasten’d to the spot whence I had come 
That I might there present it—oh! to 
whom ? 

Percy Bysshe Shelley. 

Thoughts in a Garden. 

How vainly men themselves amaze 
To win the palm, the oak, or bays, 

And their incessant labors see 
Crown’d from some single herb or tree, 

: Whose short and narrow verged shade 
Does prudently their toils upbraid ; 

While all the flow r ers and trees do close 
j To weave the garlands of Repose. 

Fair Quiet, have I found thee here, 

And Innocence thy sister dear? 

Mistaken long, I sought you then 
In busy companies of men : 

Your sacred plants, if here below 7 , 

Only among the plants will grow: 

Society is all but rude 
To this delicious solitude. 

No w 7 hite nor red was ever seen 
So amorous as this lovely green. 

Fond lovers, cruel as their flame, 

Cut in these trees their mistress’ name: 
Little, alas, they know 7 or heed 
| How far these beauties her exceed ! 

Fair trees ! where’er your barks I w r ound f 
i No name shall but your own be found. 

When we have run our passion’s heat 
Love hither makes his best retreat : 

1 The gods, w 7 ho mortal beauty chase, 

Still in a tree did end their race: 

Apollo hunted Daphne so 
I Only that she might laurel grow; 

And Pan did after Syrinx speed 
Not as a nymph, but for a reed. 

What wondrous life is this I lead! 

Ripe apples drop about my head; 

The luscious clusters of the vine 
\ Upon my mouth do crush their wine; 








502 


FIRESIDE ENCYCLOPEDIA OF POETRY. 


The nectarine and curious peach 
Into my hands themselves do reach ; 
Stumbling on melons, as I pass, 

Ensnared with flowers, I fall on grass. 

Meanwhile the mind from pleasure less 
Withdraws into its happiness— 

The mind, that ocean where each kind 
Does straight its own resemblance find; 
Yet it creates, transcending these, 

Far other worlds, and other seas ; 

Annihilating all that’s made 

To a green thought in a green shade. 

Here at the fountain’s sliding foot 
Or at some fruit tree’s mossy root, 

Casting the body’s vest aside 
My soul into the boughs does glide ; 

There, like a bird, it sits and sings, 

Then whets and claps its silver wings, 

And, till prepared for longer flight, 

Waves in its plumes the various light. 

Such was that happy Garden state 
While man there walk’d without a mate : 
After a place so pure and sweet, 

What other help could yet be meet ? 

But ’tw r as beyond a mortal’s share 
To wander solitary there : 

Two paradises are in one, 

To live in Paradise alone. 

How well the skilful gardener drew 
Of flowers and herbs this dial new ! 
Where, from above, the milder sun 
Does through a fragrant zodiac run: 

And, as it works, th’ industrious bee 
Computes its time as well as we. 

How r could such sweet and wholesome 
hours 

Be reckon’d, but with herbs and flowers! 

Andrew Marvell. 

The Braes o’ Balquhither. 

Let us go, lassie, go, 

To the Braes o’ Balquhither, 

Where the blae-berries grow 

’Mang the bonnie Highland heather ; 
"Where the deer and the rae, 

Lightly bounding together, 

Sport the lang summer day 
On the braes o’ Balquhither. 


I will twiue thee a bower 
By the clear siller fountain, 

And I’ll cover it o’er 

Wi’ the flow r ers o’ the mountain ; 

I will range through the wilds, 

And the deep glens sae drearie, 

And return wi’ their spoils 
To the bower o’ my dearie. 

When the rude wintry win’ 

Idly raves round our dwelling, 

And the roar of the linn 
On the night-breeze is swelling, 

So merrily we’ll sing, 

As the storm rattles o’er us, 

Till the dear shieling ring 
Wi’ the light lilting chorus. 

Now the simmer’s in prime 
Wi’ the flowers richly blooming, 
And the wild mountain-thyme 
A’ the moorlands perfuming ; 

To our dear native scenes 
Let us journey together, 

Where glad innocence reigns 
’Mang the braes o’ Balquhither. 

Robert Tannahill. 


An Italian Bong. 

Dear is my little native vale, 

The ring-dove builds and murmurs there 
Close by my cot she tells her tale 
To every passing villager. 

The squirrel leaps from tree to tree, 

And shells his nuts at liberty. 

In orange-groves and myrtle bowers, 

That breathe a gale of fragrance round. 
I charm the fairy-footed hours 
With my loved lute’s romantic sound ; 
Or crowns of living laurel weave 
For those that win the race at eve. 

The shepherd’s horn at break of day, 

The ballet danced in twilight glade, 
The canzonet and roundelay 
Sung in the silent greenw-ood shade,— 
These simple joys that never fail 
Shall bind me to my native vale. 

Samuel Rogers. 






POEMS OF NATURE. 


503 


Sonnet. 

To one who has been long in city pent, 
’Tis very sweet to look into the fair 
And open face of heaven,—to breathe a 
prayer 

Full in the smile of the blue firmament. 
Who is more happy, w r hen, w T ith heart 
content, 

Fatigued he sinks into some pleasant 
lair 

Of wavy grass, and reads a debonair 
And gentle tale of love and languish- 
ment? 

Returning home at evening, with an ear 
Catching the notes of Philomel,—an eye 
Watching the sailing cloudlet’s bright 
career, 

He mourns that day so soon has glided 
by: 

E’en like the passage of an angel’s tear 
That falls through the clear ether silently. 

John Keats. 

Morning Song. 

Up ! quit thy bow T er; late w r ears the hour; 
Long have the rooks caw’d round thy 
tower; 

On flower and tree loud hums the bee; 
The wilding kid sports merrily: 

A day so bright, so fresh, so clear, 

Showeth when good fortune’s near. 

Up ! lady fair, and braid thy hair, 

And rouse thee in the breezy air ; 

The lulling stream that soothed thy dream 
Is dancing in the sunny beam ; 

And hours so sw r eet, so bright, so gay, 

Will waft good fortune on its way. 

Up! time will tell: the friar’s bell 
Its service sound hath chimed well; 

The aged crone keeps house alone, 

And reapers to the fields are gone; 

The active day, so boon and bright, 

May bring good fortune ere the night. 

Joanna Baii.lie. 

The Invitation. 

Best and brightest, come away! 

Fairer far than this fair Day, 


Which, like thee, to those in sorrow 
Comes to bid a sweet good-morrow 
To the rough Year just awake 
In its cradle on the brake. 

The brightest hour of unborn Spring 
Through the wiuter wandering, 

Found, it seems, the halcyon Morn 
To hoar February born; 

Bending from heaven, in azure mirth, 

It kiss’d the forehead of the Earth, 

And smiled upon the silent sea, 

And bade the frozen streams be free, 

And waked to music all their fountains, 
And breathed upon the frozen mountains, 
And like a prophetess of May 
Strew’d flowers upon the barren way, 
Making the wintry world appear 
Like one on whom thou smilest, dear. 

Away, away, from men and towns 
To the wild wood and the downs— 

To the silent wilderness 
Where the soul need not repress 
Its music, lest it should not find 
An echo in another’s mind, 

While the touch of Nature’s art 
Harmonizes heart to heart. 

I leave this notice on my door 
For each accustom’d visitor:— 

“ I am gone into the fields 

To take w r hat this sweet hour yields. 

Reflection, you may come to-morrow r ; 

Sit by the fireside with Sorrow. 

You with the unpaid bill, Despair,— 

You tiresome verse-reciter, Care,— 

I will pay you in the grave,— 

Death will listen to your stave. 
Expectation too, be off! 

To-day is for itself enough. 

Hope, in pity, mock not Woe 
With smiles, nor follow where I go; 

Long having lived on your sweet food, 

At length I find one moment’s good 
After long pain : with all your love, 

This you never told me of.” 

Radiant Sister of the Day, 

Awake! arise! and come away! 

To the wild woods and the plains, 

And the pools where wdnter rains 
Image all their roof of leaves, 

Where the pine its garland weaves 






504 


FIRESIDE ENCYCLOPAEDIA OF POETRY. 


Of sapless green, and ivy dun, 

Round stems that never kiss the sun, 
Where the lawns and pastures be 
And the sand-hills of the sea, 

Where the melting hoar-frost wets 
The daisy-star that never sets, 

And wind-flowers and violets 
Which yet join not scent to hue 
Crown the pale year weak and new; 
When the night is left behind 
In the deep east, dun and blind, 

And the blue noon is over us, 

And the multitudinous 
Billows murmur at our feet, 

Where the earth and ocean meet, 

And all things seem only one 
In the universal Sun. 

Percy Bysshe Shelley. 


Fancy. 

Ever let the Fancy roam, 

Pleasure never is at home : 

At a touch sweet Pleasure melteth, 

Like to bubbles when rain pelteth ; 

Then let winged Fancy wander 
Through the thought still spread beyond 
her: 

Open wide the mind’s cage-door, 

She’ll dart forth, and cloudward soar. 

O sweet Fancy ! let her loose; 

Summer’s joys are spoilt by use, 

And the enjoying of the Spring 
Fades as does its blossoming : 

Autumn’s red-lipp’d fruitage too, 

Blushing through the mist and dew, 

Cloys with tasting. What do then ? 

Sit thee by the ingle, when 
The sere fagot blazes bright, 

Spirit of a winter’s night; 

When the soundless earth is muffled, 

And the caked snow is shuffled 
From the ploughboy’s heavy shoon ; 

When the Night doth meet the Noon 
In a dark conspiracy 
To banish Even from her sky. 

—Sit thee there, and send abroad 

With a mind self-overawed 

Fancy, high-commission’d :—send her ! 

She has vassals to attend her; 


She will bring, in spite of frost, 

Beauties that the earth hath lost; 

She will bring thee, all together, 

All delights of summer weather ; 

All the buds and bells of May 
From dewy sward or thorny spray ; 

All the heapfed Autumn’s wealth, 

With a still, mysterious stealth ; 

She will mix these pleasures up 
Like three fit wines in a cup, 

And thou shalt quaff it;—thou shalt 
hear 

Distant harvest-carols clear; 

Rustle of the reaped corn ; 

Sweet birds antheming the morn ; 

And in the same moment—hark ! 

’Tis the early April lark, 

Or the rooks, with busy caw, 

Foraging for sticks and straw. 

Thou shalt, at one glance, behold 
The daisy and the marigold ; 
White-plumed lilies, and the first 
Hedge-grown primrose that hath burst; 
Shaded hyacinth, alway 
Sapphire queen of the mid-May; 

And every leaf, and every flower 
Pearlbd with the selfsame shower. 

Thou shalt see the field-mouse peep 
Meagre from its cellfed sleep ; 

And the snake all winter-thin 
Cast on sunny bank its skin ; 

Freckled nest-eggs thou shalt see 
Hatching in the hawthorn tree, 

When the hen-bird’s wing doth rest 
Quiet on her mossy nest; 

Then the hurry and alarm 
When the bee-hive casts its swarm ; 
Acorns ripe down-pattering 
While the autumn breezes sing. 

O sweet Fancy ! let her loose; 

Everything is spoilt by use : 

Where’s the cheek that doth not fade, 

Too much gazed at ? Where’s the maid 
Whose lip mature is ever new ? 

Where’s the eye, however blue, 

Doth not weary ? Where’s the face 
One would meet in every place ? 

Where’s the voice, however soft, 

One would hear so very oft ? 

At a touch sweet Pleasure melteth 
Like to bubbles when rain pelteth. 








POEMS OF NATURE. 


505 


Let then wingfed Fancy find 
Thee a mistress to thy mind: 

Dulcet-eyed as Ceres’ daughter, 

Ere the god of torment taught her 
How to frown and how to chide ; 

With a waist and with a side 
White as Hebe’s, when her zone 
Slipt its golden clasp, and down 
Fell her kirtle to her feet 
While she held the goblet sweet, 

And Jove grew languid.—Break the mesh 
Of the Fancy’s silken leash ; 

Quickly break her prison-string, 

And such joys as these she’ll bring : 

—Let the wingfed Fancy roam, 

Pleasure never is at home. 

John Keats. 

The Nymph Complaining of the 
Death of her Fawn. 

The wanton troopers, riding by, 

Have shot my fawn, and it will die. 
Ungentle men ! they cannot thrive 
Who kill’d thee. Thou ne’er didst, alive, 
Them any harm ; alas! nor could 
Thy death yet do them any good. 

I’m sure I never wish’d them ill, 

Nor do I for all this, nor will; 

But, if my simple prayers may yet 
Prevail with Heaven to forget 
Thy murder, I will join my tears, 

Rather than fail. But, oh my fears! 

It cannot die so. Heaven’s king 
Keeps register of everything; 

And nothing may we use in vain; 

Even beasts must be with justice slain, 
Else men are made their deodands. 

Though they should wash their guilty 
hands 

In this warm life-blood, which doth part 
From thine and wound me to the heart, 
Yet could they not be clean—their stain 
Is dyed in such a purple grain; 

There is not such another in 
The world to offer for their sin. 

Inconstant Sylvio, when yet 
I had not found him counterfeit, 

One morning (I remember well) 

Tied in this silver chain and bell, 

Gave it to me; nay, and I know 
What he said then—I’m sure I do; 


Said he, “ Look how your huntsman here 
Hath taught a fawn to hunt his deer!” 
But Sylvio soon had me beguiled— 

This waxfed tame, while he grew wild, 
And, quite regardless of my smart, 

Left me his fawn, but took his heart. 

Thenceforth, I set myself to play 
My solitary time away, 

With this, and, very well content, 

Could so mine idle life have spent. 

For it was full of sport, and light 
Of foot and heart, and did invite 
Me to its game. It seem’d to bless 
Itself in me. How could I less 
Than love it? Oh, I cannot be 
Unkind to a beast that loveth me. 

Had it lived long, I do not know 
Whether it, too, might have done so 
As Sylvio did—his gifts might be 
Perhaps as false, or more, than he. 

For I am sure, for aught that I 
Could in so short a time espy, 

Thy love was far more better than 
The love of false and cruel man. 

With sweetest milk and sugar first 
I it at mine own fingers nursed ; 

And as it grew, so every day 

It wax’d more white and sweet than they. 

It had so sweet a breath ! and oft 

I blush’d to see its foot more soft 

And white—shall I say than my hand ? 

Nay, any lady’s of the land. 

It is a wondrous thing how fleet 
’Twas on those little silver feet! 

With what a pretty, skipping grace 
It oft would challenge me the race ! 

And when’t had left me far away, 
’Twould stay, and run again, and stay; 
For it was nimbler, much, than hinds 
And trod as if on the four winds. 

I have a garden of my own— 

But so with roses overgrown, 

And lilies, that you would it guess 
To be a little wilderness ; 

And all the spring-time of the year 
It loved only to be there. 

Among the beds of lilies I 

Have sought it oft, where it should lie; 

Yet could not, till itself would rise, 

Find it, although before mine eyes; 

For in the flaxen lilies’ shade 
It like a bank of lilies laid. 





FIRESIDE ENCYCLOPAEDIA OF POETR Y 


506 


Upon the roses it would feed, 

Until its lips ev’n seem’d to bleed ; 

And then to me ’twould boldly trip, 

And print those roses on my lip. 

But all its chief delight was still 
On roses thus itself to fill; 

And its pure virgin limbs to fold 
In whitest sheets of lilies cold. 

Had it lived long, it would have been 
Lilies without, roses within. 

Oh help ! oh help ! I see it faint, 

And die as calmly as a saint, 

See how it weeps ! the tears do come, 
Sadly, slowly, dropping like a gum. 

So weeps the wounded balsam ; so 
The holy frankincense doth flow ; 

The brotherless Heliades 
Melt in such amber tears as these. 

I in a golden vial will 
Keep these two crystal tears ; and fill 
It, till it do o’erflow, with mine; 

Then place it in Diana’s shrine. 

Now my sweet fawn is vanish’d to 
"Whither the swans and turtles go ; 

In fair Elysium to endure, 

With milk-white lambs, and ermines pure. 
Oh do not run too fast! for I 
Will but bespeak thy grave, and die. 

First my unhappy statue shall 
Be cut in marble ; and withal, 

Let it be weeping too ! But there 
Th’ engraver sure his art may spare, 

For I so truly thee bemoan 
That I shall weep though I be stone ; 

Until my tears, still drooping, wear 
My breast, themselves engraving there. 
There at my feet shalt thou be laid, 

Of purest alabaster made ; 

For I would have thine image be 
White as I can, though not as thee. 

Andrew Marvell. 


Echo and Silence. 

IN eddying course when leaves began to 

fly, 

And Autumn in her lap the store to 
strew, 

As ’mid wild scenes I chanced the muse 
to woo, 

Through glens untrod, and woods that 
frown’d on high, 


| Two sleeping nymphs with wonder mute 1 
spy! 

And, lo, she's gone !—In robe of dark- 
green hue 

j ’Twas Echo from her sister Silence 
flew, 

For quick the hunter’s horn resounded tc 
the sky ! 

In shade affrighted Silence melts away. 

Not so her sister.—Hark! for onward 
still, 

With far-heard step, she takes her listen¬ 
ing way, 

Bounding from rock to rock, and hill to 
hill. 

Ah, mark the merry maid in mockful 

P^y, 

With thousand mimic tones the laughing 
forest fill! 

Sir Egerton Brydges. 


Bugle Song. 

The splendor falls on castle-walls 
And snowy summits old in story : 

The long light shakes across the lakes, 
And the wild cataract leaps in glory. 
Blow, bugle, blow, set the wild echoes fly¬ 
ing, 

j Blow, bugle ; answer, echoes, dying, dying, 
dying. 

Oh hark ! oh hear ! how thin and clear, 
And thinner, clearer, farther going ! 
Oh sweet and far, from cliff and scar, 
The horns of Elfland faintly blowing! 
Blow, let us hear the purple glens reply¬ 
ing: 

Blow, bugle ; answer, echoes, dying, dying, 
dying. 

0 love, they die in yon rich sky, 

They faint on hill or field or river: 
Our echoes roll from soul to soul, 

And grow for ever and for ever. 

Blow, bugle, blow, set the wild echoes fly¬ 
ing, 

And answer, echoes, answer, dying, dying, 
dying. 


Alfred Tennyson. 












Poems of the Sea. 


The Sea. 

The sea! the sea! the open sea! 

The blue, the fresh, the ever free! 

Without a mark, without a bound, 

It runneth the earth’s wide regions’ round, 
It plays with the clouds; it mocks the 
skies; 

Or like a cradled creature lies. 

I’m on the sea! I’m on the sea! 

I am where I would ever be; 

With the blue above, and the blue below, 
And silence wheresoe’er I go; 

If a storm should come and awake the 
deep, 

What matter? I shall ride and sleep. 

I love (oh how I love!) to ride 
On the fierce foaming, bursting tide, 

When every mad wave drowns the moon, 
Or whistles aloft his tempest-tune, 

And tells how goeth the world below, 

And why the south-west blasts do blow. 

I never was on the dull tame shore 
But I loved the great sea more and more, 
And backward flew to her billowy breast, 
Like a bird that seeketh its mother’s nest; 
And a mother she ivas, and is to me; 

For I was born on the open sea! 

The waves were white, and red the morn, 
In the noisy hour when I was born ; 

And the whale it whistled, the porpoise 
roll’d, 

And the dolphins bared their backs of 
gold; 

And never was heard such an outcry wild 
As welcomed to life the ocean child! 

I’ve lived since then, in calm and strife, 
Full fifty summers a sailor’s life, 

With w r ealth to spend and a power to 
range, 

But never have sought, nor sigh’d for 
change; 


And Death, whenever he come to me, 
Shall come on the wild unbounded sea! 

Bryan Waller Procter 
(Barry Cornwall). 

Ye Gentlemen of England. 

Ye gentlemen of England 
That live at home at ease, 

Ah ! little do you think upon 
The dangers of the seas. 

Give ear unto the mariners, 

And they will plainly show 

All the cares and the fears 

When the stormy winds do blow. 

If enemies oppose us 
When England is at war 

With any foreign nation, 

We fear not wound or scar ; 

Our roaring guns shall teach ’em 
Our valor for to know, 

Whilst they reel on the keel, 

And the stormy winds do blow. 

Then courage, all brave mariners, 

And never be dismay’d ; 

While we have bold adventurers, 

We ne’er shall want a trade: 

Our merchants will employ us 
To fetch them wealth, we know; 

Then be bold—work for gold, 

When the stormy winds do blow. 

Martyn Parker. 


The Forging of the Anchor. 

Come, see the Dolphin’s anchor forged! 

’tis at a white heat now— 

The bellows ceased, the flames decreased, 
though, on the forge’s brow, 

The little flames still fitfully play through 
the sable mound, 

And fitfully you still may see the grim 
smiths ranking round, 

507 






508 


FIRESIDE ENCYCLOPAEDIA OF POETRY. 


All clad in leathern panoply, their broad 
hands only bare, 

Some rest upon their sledges here, some 
work the windlass there. 


And not an inch to flinch he deigns, save 
when ye pitch sky-high ; 

Then moves his head, as though he said, 
“ Fear nothing, here am 11” 


The windlass strains the tackle-chains,— 
the black mould heaves below, 

And red and deep, a hundred veins burst 
out at every throe. 

It rises, roars, rends all outright,—0 Vul¬ 
can, what a glow! 

’Tis blinding white, ’tis blasting bright,— 
the high sun shines not so! 

The high sun sees not, on the earth, such 
fiery fearful show. 

The roof-ribs swarth, the candent hearth, 
the ruddy lurid row 

Of smiths, that stand, an ardent band, 
like men before the foe, 

As, quivering through his fleece of flame, 
the sailing monster slow 

Sinks on the anvil; all about, the faces 
fiery grow: 

“Hurrah!” they shout, “leap out, leap 
out!” bang, bang! the sledges go; 

Hurrah! the jetted lightnings are hissing 
high and low, 

A hailing fount of fire is struck at every 
squashing blow; 

The leathern mail rebounds the hail, the 
rattling cinders strow 

The ground around; at every bound the 
sweltering fountains flow; 

And, thick and loud, the swinking crowd 
at every stroke pant “ Ho!” 

Leap out, leap out, my masters ! leap out, 
and lay on load ; 

Let’s forge a goodly anchor—a bower thick 
and broad, 

For a heart of oak is hanging on every 
blow, I bode, 

And I see the good ship riding, all in a 
perilous road, 

The low reef roaring on her lee, the roll 
of ocean pour’d 

From stem to stern, sea after sea; the 
mainmast by the board; 

The bulwarks down, the rudder gone, the 
boats stove at the chains; 

But courage still, brave mariners, the 
bower yet remains! * 


Swing in your strokes in order; let foot 
and hand keep time; 

Your blows make music sweeter far than 
any steeple’s chime. 

But while ye swing your sledges, sing, and 
let the burthen be, 

The anchor is the anvil king, and royal 
craftsmen we! 

Strike in, strike in !—the sparks begin to 
dull their rustling red ; 

Our hammers ring with sharper din—our 
work will soon be sped; 

Our anchor soon must change his bed of 
fiery rich array 

For a hammock at the roaring bows, or an 
oozy couch of clay ; 

Our anchor soon must change the lay of 
merry craftsmen here 

For the yeo-heave-o and the heave away, 
and the sighing seamen’s cheer— 

When, weighing slow, at eve they go, far, 
far from love and home; 

And sobbing sweethearts, in a row, wail 
o’er the ocean foam. 


In livid and obdurate gloom, he darkens 
down at last; 

A shapely one he is, and strong, as e’er 
from cat was cast. 

0 trusted and trustworthy guard ! if thou 
hadst life like me, 

What pleasures would thy toils reward be¬ 
neath the deep green sea ! 

O deep sea-diver, who might then behold 
such sights as thou?— 

The hoary monster’s palaces !—Methinks 
what joy ’twere now 

To go plumb-plunging down, amid the as¬ 
sembly of the whales, 

And feel the churn’d sea round me boil 
beneath their scourging tails! 

Then deep in tangle-woods to fight the 
fierce sea-unicorn, 

And send him foil’d and bellowing back, 
for all his ivory horn ; 








POEMS OF THE SEA, 


509 


To leave the subtle sworder-fish of bony 
blade forlorn ; 

ind for the ghastly-grinning shark, to 
laugh his jaws to scorn ; 

To leap down on the kraken’s back, where 
’mid Norwegian isles 

He lies, a lubber anchorage for sudden 
shallow’d miles— 

Till, snorting like an under-sea volcano, 
off he rolls; 

Meanwhile to swing, a-buffeting the far 
astonish’d shoals 

Of his back-browsing ocean-calves; or, 
haply, in a cove 

Shell-strown, and consecrate of old to 
some Undine’s love, 

To find the long-hair’d mermaidens; or, 
hard by icy lands, 

To wrestle with the sea-serpent, upon ceru¬ 
lean sands. 


0 broad-arm’d fisher of the deep! whose 
sports can equal thine ? 

The dolphin weighs a thousand tons that 
tugs thy cable line ; 

And night by night ’tis thy delight, thy 
glory day by day, 

Throu gh sable sea and breaker white the 
giant game to play. 

But, shamer of our little sports! forgive 
the name I gave : 

A fisher’s joy is to destroy—thine office is 
to save. 

O lodger in the sea-king’s halls! couldst 
thou but understand 

Whose be the white bones by thy side— 
or who that dripping band, 

Slow swaying in the heaving wave, that 
round about thee bend, 

With sounds like breakers in a dream 
blessing their ancieut friend— 

Oh, couldst thou know what heroes glide 
with larger steps round thee, 

Thine iron side would swell with pride— 
thou’dst leap within the sea ! 

Give honor to their memories who left the 
pleasant strand 

To shed their blood so freely for the love 
of fatherland— 


Who left their chance of quiet age and 
grassy churchyard grave 

So freely, for a restless bed amid the toss¬ 
ing wave! 

Oh, though our anchor may not be al' 1 
have fondly sung, 

Honor him for their memory whose bones 
he goes among! 

Samuel Ferguson. 

A Life on the Ocean Wave. 

A life on the ocean wave, 

A home on the rolling deep ; 

Where the scatter’d waters rave, 

And the winds their revels keep ! 

Like an eagle caged I pine 
On this dull, unchanging shore: 

Oh give me the flashing brine, 

The spray and the tempest’s roar! 

Once more on the deck I stand, 

Of my own swift-gliding craft: 

Set sail! farewell to the land ; 

The gale follows fair abaft. 

We shoot through the sparkling foam, 
Like an ocean-bird set free,— 

Like the ocean-bird, our home 
We’ll find far out on the sea. 

The land is no longer in view, 

The clouds have begun to frown,; 

But with a stout vessel and crew, 

We’ll say, Let the storm come down ! 

And the song of our hearts shall be, 
While the w’inds and the waters rave, 

A home on the rolling sea ! 

A life on the ocean wave! 

Ei'es Sargent. 

A Wet Sheet and a Flowing 
Sea. 

A wet sheet and a flowing sea— 

A wind that follows fast, 

And fills the white and rustling sail, 

And bends the gallant mast— 

And bends the gallant mast, my boys. 
While, like the eagle free, 

Away the good ship flies, and leaves 
Old England on the lee. 






510 


FIRESIDE ENCYCLOPAEDIA OF POETRY 


Oh for a soft and gentle wind ! 

J heard a fair one cry ; 

But give to me the snoring breeze, 

And white waves heaving high— 

And white waves heaving high, my boys, 
The good ship tight and free ; 

The world of waters is our home, 

And merry men are we. 

There’s tempest in yon horned moon, 
And lightning in yon cloud ; 

And hark the music, mariners ! 

The wind is piping loud— 

The wind is piping loud, my boys, 

The lightning flashing free ; 

While the hollow oak our palace is, 

Our heritage the sea. 

Allan Cunningham. 


The fisherman's Song. 

Away— away o’er the feathery crest 

Of the beautiful blue are we: 

For our toil-lot lies on its boiling breast, 

And our wealth’s in the glorious sea! 

And we’ve hymn’d in the grasp of the 
fiercest night, 

To the God of the sons of toil, 

As we cleft the wave by its own white 
light, 

And away with its scaly spoil. 

Then oh, for the long and the strong 
oar-sweep 

We have given, and will again ! 
For when children’s weal lies in the 
deep, 

Oh, their fathers must be men ! 

And we’ll think, as the blast grows loud 
and long, 

That we hear our offspring’s cries; 

And we’ll think, as the surge grows tall 
and strong, 

Of the tears in thei r mothers’ eyes: 

And we’ll reel through the clutch of the 
shiv’ring green, 

For the warm, warm clasp at home— 

For the welcoming shriek of each heart’s 
own queen, 

When her cheek’s like the flying foam. 


Then oh, for the long and the strong 
oar-sweep 

We have given, and must again ! 
But when white waves leap, and our 
pale wives weep, 

O Heaven,—thy mercy then ! 

Do we yearn for the land when toss’d on 
this? 

Let it ring to the proud one’s tread ! 

Far worse than the waters and winds may 
hiss 

Where the poor man gleans his bread. 

If the adder-tongue of the upstart knave 
Can bleed what it may not bend, 

’Twere better to battle the wildest wave 
That the spirit of storms could send, 
Than be singing farewell to the bold 
oar-sweep 

We have given, and will again ; 
Though our souls should bow to the 
savage deep, 

Oh, they’ll never to savage men! 

And if Death, at times, through a foamy 
cloud, 

On the brown-brow’d boatman glares, 

He can pay him his glance with a soul as 
proud 

As the form of a mortal bears; 

And oh ’twere glorious, sure, to die, 

In our toils for some on shore, 

With a hopeful eye fix’d calm on the sky, 
And a hand on the broken oar. 

Then oh, for the long and the strong 
oar-sweep! 

Hold to it!—hurrah !—dash on! 

If our babes must fast till we rob 
the deep, 

It is time we had begun ! 

Francis Davis. 

The Mariner's Dream. 

In slumbers of midnight the sailor boy 

lay; 

His hammock swung loose at the sport 
of the wind; 

But watch-worn and weary, his care flew 
away, 

And visions of happiness danced o'er 
his mind. 







POEMS OF THE SEA. 


511 


He dream’d of his home, of his dear native 
bowers, 

And pleasures that waited on life’s merry 
morn; 

While Memory stood sideways half cover’d 
with flowers, 

And restored every rose, but secreted its 
thorn. 

Then Fancy her magical pinions spread 
wide, 

And bade the young dreamer in ecstasy 
rise ; 

Now far, far behind him the green waters ! 
glide, 

And the cot of his forefathers blesses his I 
eyes. 

The jessamine clambers in flower o’er the 
thatch, 

And the swallow sings sweet from her 
nest in the wall; 

All trembling with transport, he raises the 
latch, 

And the voices of loved ones reply to 
his call. 

A father bends o’er him with looks of de¬ 
light ; 

His cheek is impearl’d with a mother’s 
warm tear; 

And the lips of the boy in a love-kiss 
unite 

With the lips of the maid whom his 
bosom holds dear. 

The heart of the sleeper beats high in his 
breast; 

Joy quickens his pulses—his hardships 
seem o’er; 

And a murmur of happiness steals through 
his rest— 

Kind Fate, thou hast blest me—I ask for 
no more. 

Ah ! what is that flame which now bursts 
on his eye ? 

Ah! what is that sound which now 
’larums his ear ? 

*Tis the lightning’s red glare, painting hell 
on the sky! 

’Tis the crashing of thunders, the groan 
of the sphere! 


He springs from his hammock—he flies to 
the deck; 

Amazement confronts him with images 
dire; 

Wild winds and mad waves drive the ves¬ 
sel a wreck; 

The masts fly in splinters ; the shrouds 
are on fire! 

Like mountains the billows tremendously 
swell; 

In vain the lost wretch calls on Mercy 
to save; 

Unseen hands of spirits are ringing his 
knell; 

And the death-angel flaps his broad wing 
o’er the wave! 

0 sailor boy! woe to thy dream of de¬ 
light ! 

In darkness dissolves the gay frost-work 
of bliss. 

Where now is the picture that Fancy 
touch’d bright— 

Thy parents’ fond pressure and love’s 
honey’d kiss ? 

0 sailor boy ! sailor boy ! never again 

Shall home, love, or kindred thy wishes 
repay; 

Unbless’d and unhonor’d, down deep in 
the main, 

Full many a fathom, thy frame shall de¬ 
cay. 

No tomb shall e’er plead to remembrance 
for thee, 

Or redeem form or frame from the mer¬ 
ciless surge; 

But the white foam of waves shall thy 
winding-sheet be, 

And winds, in the midnight of winter, 
thy dirge! 

On beds of green sea-flowers thy limbs 
shall be laid; 

Around thy white bones the red coral 
shall grow; 

Of thy fair yellow locks threads of amber 
be made; 

And every part suit to thy mansion be¬ 
low. 











512 


FIRESIDE ENCYCLOPEDIA OF POETRY. 


Days, months, years, and ages shall circle 
away, 

And still the vast waters above thee 
shall roll;— 

Earth loses thy pattern for ever and aye:— 
O sailor boy! sailor boy I peace to thy 
soul 1 

William Dimond. 


Poor Jack. 

Go patter to lubbers and swabs, do ye see, 

’Bout danger, and fear, and the like ; 

A tight water-boat and good sea-room give 
me, 

And it ent to a little I’ll strike: 

Though the tempest top-gallant masts 
smack smooth should smite, 

And shiver each splinter of wood, 

Clear the wreck, stow the yards, and bouse 
everything tight, 

And under reef’d foresail we’ll scud : 

Avast! nor don’t think me a milksop so 
soft 

To be taken for trifles aback ; 

For they say there’s a Providence sits up 
aloft, 

To keep watch for the life of poor Jack. 

1 heard our good chaplain palaver one 
day 

About souls, heaven, mercy, and such; 

And, my timbers! what lingo he’d coil 
and belay, 

Why, ’twas just all as one as High 
Dutch: 

For he said how a sparrow can’t founder, 
d’ye see, 

Without orders that come down below; 

And a many fine things that proved clear¬ 
ly to me 

That Providence takes us in tow : 

For, says he, do you mind me, let storms 
e’er so oft 

Take the topsails of sailors aback, 

T here’s a sweet little cherub that sits up 
aloft, 

To keep watch for the life of poor Jack. 

I said to our Poll—for, d’ye see, she would 
cry. 

When last we weigh’d anchor for sea— 


What argufies sniveling and piping youi 
eye? 

Why, what a damn’d fool you must be! 
Can’t you see the world’s wide, and there’s 
room for us all, 

Both for seamen and lubbers ashore ? 
And if to old Davy I should go, friend Poll, 
You never will hear of me more: 

What then? all’s a hazard: come, don’t be 
so soft, 

Perhaps I may laughing come back, 

For, d’ye see, there’s a cherub sits smiling 
aloft, 

To keep watch for the life of poor Jack. 

D’ye mind me, a sailor should be every inch 
All as one as a piece of the ship, 

And with her brave the world without 
offering to flinch, 

From the moment the anchor’s a-trip. 

As for me, in all weathers, all times, sides, 
and ends, 

Naught’s a trouble from duty that 
springs, 

For my heart is my Poll’s, and my rhino’s 
my friend’s, 

And as for my life, ’tis the king’s: 

Even when my time comes, ne’er believe 
me so soft 

As for grief to be taken aback, 

For the same little cherub that sits up aloft 
Will look out a good berth for poor Jack, 
Charles Dibdin. 

Hannah Binding Shoes. 

Poor lone Hannah, 

Sitting at the window, binding shoes ! 
Faded, wrinkled, 

Sitting, stitching, in a mournful muse ! 
Bright-eyed beauty once was she, 

When the bloom was on the tree : 

Spring and winter 

Hannah’s at the window, binding shoes. 
Not a neighbor 

Passing nod or answer will refuse 
To her whisper, 

“ Is there from the fishers any news ?” 

Oh, her heart’s adrift with one 
On an endless voyage gone! 

Night and morning 

Hannah’s at the window, binding shoes 




POEMS OF TIIE SEA. 


51S 


Fair young Hannah, 

Hon, the sunburnt fisher, gayly woos; 

Hale and clever, 

For a willing heart and hand he sues. 
May-day skies are all aglow, 

And the waves are laughing so! 

For her wedding 

Hannah leaves her window and her shoes. 
May is passing: 

Mid the apple-boughs a pigeon coos. 
Hannah shudders, 

For the mild south-wester mischief brews. 
Round the rocks of Marblehead, 
Outward bound, a schooner sped : 

Silent, lonesome, 

Hannah’s at the window, binding shoes. 
’Tis November. 

Now no tears her wasted cheek bedews. 

From Newfoundland 
Not a sail returning will she lose, 
Whispering hoarsely, “ Fisherman, 

Have you, have you heard of Ben ?” 

Old with watching, 

Hannah’s at the window, binding shoes. 
Twenty winters 

Bleach and tear the ragged shore she 
views. 

Twenty seasons;— 

Never one has brought her any news. 

Still her dim eyes silently 
Chase the white sail o’er the sea: 
Hopeless, faithful, 

Hannah’s at the window, binding shoes. 

Lucy Larcom. 

The Three Fishers. 

Three fishers went sailing away to the 
west— 

Away to the west as the sun went 
down; 

Each thought on the woman who loved 
him the best, 

And the children stood watching them 
out of the town ; 

For men must work, and women must 
weep; 

And there’s little to earn, and many to 
keep, 

Though the harbor bar be moaning. 

33 


! Three wives sat up in the lighthouse 
tower, 

And they trimm’d the lamps as the sun 
went down; 

They look’d at the squall, and they look’d 
at the shower, 

And the night-rack came rolling up. 
ragged and brown; 

But men must work, and women must 
weep, 

Though storms be sudden, and waters deep, 
And the harbor bar be moaning. 

Three corpses lay out on the shining sands 

In the morning gleam as the tide went 
down, 

And the women are weeping and wring¬ 
ing their hands 

For those who will never come home to 
the town ; 

For men must work, and women must 
weep— 

And the sooner it’s over, the sooner tc 
sleep— 

And good-bye to the bar and its moan* 
ing. 

Chari.es Kingsley. 


“THEY'RE DEAR FISH TO ME." 

The farmer’s wife sat at the door, 

A pleasant sight to see; 

And blithesome were the wee, wee bairns 
That play’d around her knee. 

When, bending ’neath her heavy creel, 

A poor fish-wife came by, 

And, turning from the toilsome road, 

Unto the door drew nigh. 

She laid her burden on the green, 

And spread its scaly store, 

With trembling hands and pleading words 
She told them o’er and o’er. 

But lightly laugh’d the young guidwife, 

“ We’re no sae scarce o’ cheer ; 

Tak up your creel, and gang your ways,- » 
I’ll buy nae fish sae dear.” 

Bending beneath her load again, 

A weary sight to see; 

Right sorely sigh’d the poor fish-wife, 

“ They’re dear fish to me l 









514 


FIRESIDE ENCYCLOPAEDIA OF POETRY. 


“ Our boat was oot ae fearfu’ night, 

And when the storm blew o’er, 

My husband, and my three brave sons, 
Lay corpses on the shore. 

“ I’ve been a wife for thirty years, 

A childless widow three; 

I maun buy them now to sell again,— 
They’re dear fish to me!” 

The farmer’s wife turn’d to the door,— 
What was’t upon her cheek ? 

What was there rising in her breast, 

That then she scarce could speak ? 

She thought upon her ain guid man, 

Her lightsome laddies three; 

The woman’s words had pierced her 
heart,— 

“ They’re dear fish to me!” 

‘ Come back,” she cried, with quivering 
voice 

And pity’s gathering tear; 

* Come in, come in, my poor woman, 

Ye’re kindly welcome here. 

“ I kentna o’ your aching heart, 

Your weary lot to dree; 

I’ll ne’er forget your sad, sad words: 

‘ They’re dear fish to me!’ ” 

Ay, let the happy-hearted learn 
To pause ere they deny 
The meed of honest toil, and think 
How r much their gold may buy,— 

How much of manhood’s wasted strength, 
What woman’s misery,— 

What breaking hearts might swell the cry: 
“ They’re dear fish to me !” 

Author Unknown. 


The Wreck of the Hesperus. 

It was the schooner Hesperus, 

That sailed the wintry sea; 

And the skipper had taken his little 
daughter 

To bear him company. 

Blue were her eyes as the fairy flax, 

Her cheeks like the dawn of day, 

And her bosom white as the hawthorn buds, 
That ope in the month c/f May. 


The skipper he stood beside the helm; 

His pipe was in his mouth, 

And he watched how the veering flaw did 
blow 

The smoke, now West, now South. 

Then up and spake an old Sailor 
Had sailed to the Spanish Main: 

“I pray thee, put into yonder port, 

For I fear a hurricane. 

“ Last night the moon had a golden ring 
And to-night no moon we see!” 

The skipper, he blew a whiff from his 
pipe, 

And a scornful laugh laughed he. 

Colder and louder blew the wind, 

A gale from the Northeast ; 

The snow fell hissing in the brine, 

And the billows frothed like yeast. 

Down came the storm, and smote amain 
The vessel in its strength ; 

She shuddered and paused, like a frighted 
steed, 

Then leaped her cable’s length. 

“Come hither! come hither! my little 
daughter, 

And do not tremble so; 

For I can weather the roughest gale 
That ever wind did blow.” 

He wrapped her warm in his seaman’s 
coat 

Against the stinging blast; 

He cut u rope from a broken spar, 

And bound her to the mast. 

“O father! I hear the church-bells ring; 

Oh say, what may it be ?” 

“ ’Tis a fog-bell on a rock-bound coast!” 
And he steered for the open sea. 

“ 0 father! I hear the sound of guns ; 

Oh say, what may it be ?” 

“ Some ship in distress, that cannot live 
In such an angry sea!” 

“ O father ! I see a gleaming light; 

Oh say, what may it be ?” 

But the father answered never a word, 

A frozen corpse was he. 

Lashed to the helm, all stiff and stark, 
With his face turned to the skies, 






POEMS OF THE SEA. 


olo 


The lantern gleamed through the gleam¬ 
ing snow 

On his fixed and glassy eyes. 

Then the maiden clasped her hands and 
prayed 

That saved she might be; 

And she thought of Christ, who stilled the 
wave 

On the Lake of Galilee. 

And fast through the midnight dark and 
drear, 

Through the whistling sleet and snow, 
Like a sheeted ghost, the vessel swept 
Towards the reef of Norman’s Woe. 

And ever, the fitful gusts between, 

A sound came from the land ; 

It was the sound of the trampling surf 
On the rocks and the hard sea-sand. 

The breakers were right beneath her bows, 
She drifted a dreary wreck, 

And a whooping billow swept the crew, 
Like icicles from her deck. 

She struck where the white and fleecy 
waves 

Look soft as carded wool, 

But the cruel rocks, they gored her side 
Like the horns of an angry bull. 

Her rattling shrouds, all sheathed in ice, 
With the masts went by the board ; 

Like a vessel of glass, she stove and sank, 
Ho! ho! the breakers roared ! 

At daybreak, on the bleak sea-beach, 

A fisherman stood aghast, 

To see the form of a maiden fair, 

Lashed close to a drifting mast. 

The salt sea was frozen on her breast, 

The salt tears in her eyes ; 

And he saw her hair, like the brown sea¬ 
weed, 

On the billows fall and rise. 

Such was the wreck of the Hesperus, 

In the midnight and the snow ! 

Christ save us all from a death like this, 

On the reef of Norman’s Woe! 

Henry Wadsworth Longfellow, j 


The Storm. 

The tempest rages wild and high, 

The waves lift up their voice and cry 
Fierce answers to the angry sky,— 
Miserere Domine. 

Through the black night and driving rain, 
A ship is struggling, all in vain, 

To live upon the stormy main ;— 

Miserere Domine. 

The thunders roar, the lightnings glare, 
Vain is it now to strive or dare; 

A cry goes up of great despair,— 

Miserere Domine. 

The stormy voices of the main, 

The moaning wind and pelting rain 
Beat on the nursery window-pane:— 
Miserere Domine. 

Warm-curtained was the little bed, 

Soft pillowed was the little head, 

“ The storm will wake the child,” they said. 

Miserere Domine. 

Cowering among his pillows white, 

He prays, his blue eyes dim with fright, 

“ Father, save those at sea to-night!” 

Miserere Domine. 

The morning shone, all clear and gay, 

On a ship at anchor in the bay, 

And on a little child at play.— 

Gloria tibi Domine ! 
Adelaide Anne Procter. 


Twilight a t Sea .—A Fra gment. 

The twilight hours, like birds flew by, 
As lightly and as free; 

Ten thousand stars were in the sky, 

Ten thousand on the sea; 

For every wave, with dimpled face 
That leaped upon the air, 

Had caught a star in its embrace, 

And held it trembling there. 

Amelia B. Welby. 









FIRESIDE ENCYCLOPAEDIA OF POETRY. 


r,iG 


Tacking Ship off Shore. 

The weather-leech of the topsail shivers, 
The bow-lines strain, and the lee-shrouds 
slacken, 

The braces are taut, the lithe boom quivers, 
And the waves with the coming squall- 
cloud blacken. 

Open one point on the weather-bow, 

Is the light-house tall on Fire Island 
Head? 

There’s a shade of doubt on the captain’s 
brow, 

And the pilot watches the heaving lead. 

I stand at the wheel, and with eager eye, 
To sea and to sky and to shore I gaze, 

Till the muttered order of “Full and by !” 
Is suddenly changed for “Full for stays !” 

The ship bends lower before the breeze, 

As her broadside fair to the blast she 
lays; 

And she swifter springs to the rising seas, 
As the pilot calls, “Stand by for stays!” 

It is silence all, as each in his place, 

With the gathered coil in his hardened 
hands, 

Bv tack and bowline, by sheet and brace, 
Waiting the watchword impatient stands. 

And the light on Fire Island Head draws 
near, 

As, trumpet-winged, the pilot’s shout 

From his post on the bowsprit’s heel I 
hear, 

With the welcome call of “Ready! 
About!” 


And my shoulder stiff to the wheel I lay, 
As I answer, “Ay, ay, sir! Ha-a-rd a 
lee !” 

With the swerving leap of a startled steed 
The ship flies fast in the eye of the wind, 

The dangerous shoals on the lee recede, 
And the headland white we have left, 
behind. 

The topsails flutter, the jibs collapse, 

And belly and tug at the groaning cleats; 

The spanker slats, and the mainsail flaps; 
And thunders the order, “Tacks and 

sheets!” 

’Mid the rattle of blocks and the tramp of 
the crew, 

Hisses the rain of the rushing squall: 

The sails are aback from clew to clew, 

And now is the moment for, “Mainsail, 
haul!” 

And the Leavy yards, like a baby’s toy, 

By fifty strong arms are swiftly swung: 

She holds her way, and I look with joy 
For the first white spray o’er the bul¬ 
warks flung. 

“Let go, and haul /” ’Tis the last command, 
And the head-sails fill to the blast once 
more: 

Astern and to leeward lies the land, 

With its breakers white on the shingly 
shore. 

| What matters the reef, or the rain, or the 
squall ? 

I steady the helm for the open sea; 

The first mate clamors, “ Belay there, all!” 
And the captain’s breath once more 
comes free. 


No time to spare! It is touch and go ; 
And the captain growls, “Down, helm! 
hard down!” 

As my weight on the whirling spokes I 
throw, 

While heaven grows black with the 
storm-cloud’s frown. 


| And so off shore let the good ship fly; 

Little care I how the gusts may blow, 

! In my fo’castle bunk, in a jacket dry, 

Eight bells have struck and my watch is 
below. 


Walter Mitchel. 


High o’er the knight-heads flies the spray, 
As we meet the shock of the plunging 
sea; 


The Boatie Rows. 

Oh, weel may the boatie row, 
And better may she speed ! 







517 


POEMS OF THE SEA. 


And weel may the boatie row, 

That wins the bairns’s bread ! 

The boatie rows, the boatie rows, 

The boatie rows indeed ; 

And happy be the lot of a’ 

That wishes her to speed ! 

I cuist my line in Largo Bay, 

And fishes I caught nine; 

There’s three to boil, and three to fry, 
And three to bait the line, 

The boatie rows, the boatie rows, 

The boatie rows indeed ; 

And happy be the lot of a’ 

That wishes her to speed ! 

Oh, weel may the boatie row, 

That fills a heavy creel. 

And cleads us a’ frae head to feet, 

And buys our parritch meal. 

The boatie rows, the boatie rows, 

The boatie rows indeed; 

And happy be the lot of a’ 

That wish the boatie speed ! 

When Jamie vowed he would be mine. 
And wan frae me my heart, 

Oh, muckle lighter grew my creel! 

He swore we’d never part! 

The boatie rows, the boatie rows, 

The boatie rows fu’ weel; 

And muckle lighter is the lade 
When love bears up the creel. 

My kurteh I put upon my head, 

And dressed mysel’ fu’ braw : 

I trow my heart was dowf and wae 
When Jamie gaed awa: 

But weel may the boatie row, 

And lucky be her part; 

And lightsome be the lassie’s care 
That yields an honest heart! 

When Sawnie, Jock, and Janetie 
Are up, and gotten lear, 

They’ll help to gar the boatie row, 

And lighten a’ our care. 

The boatie rows, the boatie rows, 

The boatie rows fu’ weel; 

And lightsome be her heart that bears 
The murlain and the creel! 


And when wi’ age we are worn down, 
And hirpling round the door, 

They’ll row to keep us hale and warm, 
As we did them before : 

Then, weel may the boatie row, 

That wins the bairns’s bread ; 

And happy be the lot of a’ 

That wish the boat to speed ! 

John Ewen. 

G ULF- WEED. 

A weary weed, toss’d to and fro, 

Drearily drench’d in the ocean brine, 
Soaring high and sinking low, 

Lash’d along without will of mine; 
Sport of the spoom of the surging sea : 

Flung on the foam, afar and anear, 
Mark my manifold mystery,— 

Growth and grace in their place appear. 

I bear round berries, gray and red, 
Rootless and rover though I be; 

My spangled leaves, when nicely spread, 
Arboresce as a trunkless tree; 

Corals curious coat me o’er, 

White and hard in apt array ; 

’Mid the wild waves’ rude uproar 
Gracefully grow I, night and day. 

Hearts there are on the sounding shore, 
Something whispers soft to me, 

Restless and roaming for evermore, 

Like this weary weed of the sea; 

Bear they yet on each beating breast 
The eternal type of the wondrous whole, 
Growth unfolding amidst unrest, 

Grace informing with silent soul. 

Cornelius George Fenner. 

The Treasures of the deep. 

What hid’st thou in thy treasure-caves 
and cells, 

Thou hollow-sounding and mysterious 
main ?— 

Pale glistening pearls and rainbow-cofor’d 
shells, 

Bright things which gleam unreck’d-of 
and in vain !— 

Keep, keep thy riches, melancholy sea ! 
We ask not such from thee. 








518 


FIRESIDE ENCYCLOPAEDIA OF POETRY. 


Yet more, the depths have more!—what 
wealth untold, 

Far down, and shining through their 
stillness lies! 

Thou hast the starry gems, the burning 
gold, 

Won from ten thousand royal argosies!— 

Sweep o’er thy spoils, thou wild and 
wrathful main! 

Earth claims not these again. 

Yet more, the depths have more! thy 
waves have roll’d 

Above the cities of a world gone by ; 

Sand hath fill’d up the palaces of old, 

Sea-weed o’ergrown the halls of rev¬ 
elry.— 

Dash o’er them, Ocean, in thy scornful 
play! 

Man yields them to decay. 

Yet more, the billows and the depths have 
more! 

High hearts and brave are gather’d to 
thy breast! 

They hear not now the booming waters 
roar, 

The battle-thunders will not break their 
rest.— 

Keep thy red gold and gems, thou stormy 
grave! 

Give back the true and brave ! 

Give back the lost and lovely ! those for 
whom 

The place was kept at board and hearth 
so long! 

The prayer went up through midnight’s 
breathless gloom, 

And the vain yearning woke midst fes¬ 
tal song! 

Hold fast thy buried isles, thy towers o’er- 
thrown,— 

But all is not thine own. 

To thee the love of woman hath gone 
down, 

Dark flow thy tides o’er manhood’s noble 
head, 

O’er youth’s bright locks, and beauty’s 
flowery crown; 

Yet must thou hear a voice,—Restore 
the dead! 


Earth shall reclaim her precious things 
from thee!— 

Restore the dead, thou sea ! 

Felicia Dorothea Heman.% 


The Coral Grove. 

Deep in the wave is a coral grove, 

Where the purple mullet and gold-fish rove; 
Where the sea-flower spreads its leaves of 
blue 

That never are wet with falling dew, 

But in bright and changeful beauty shine 
Far down in the green and glassy brine. 
The floor is of sand, like the mountain- 
drift, 

And the pearl-shells spangle the flinty snow; 
From coral rocks the sea-plants lift 
Their boughs, where the tides and billows 
flow ; 

The water is calm and still below, 

For the winds and waves are absent there. 
And the sands are bright as the stars that 
glow 

In the motionless fields of upper air. 
There, with its waving blade of green, 

The sea-flag streams through the silent 
water, 

! And the crimson leaf of the dulse is seen 
I To blush, like a banner bathed in slaughter. 
There with a light and easy motion 
The fan-coral sweeps through the clear, 
deep sea; 

And the yellow and scarlet tufts of ocean 
Are bending like corn on the upland lea ; 
And life, in rare and beautiful forms, 

Is sporting amid those bowers of stone, 
And is safe when the wrathful spirit of 
storms 

Has made the top of the wave his own. 
And when the ship from his fury flies, 
Where the myriad voices of ocean roar, 
When the wind-god frowns in the murky 
skies, 

And demons are waiting the wreck on 
shore; 

Then, far below, in the peaceful sea, 

The purple mullet and gold-fish rove 
Where the waters murmur tranquilly, 
Through the bending twigs of the coral 
grove. 

James Gates Percival. 









TOEMS OF THE SEA. 


51‘J 


Drifting. 

My soul to-day 
Is far away, 

Sailing the Yesuvian Bay ; 

My winged boat, 

A bird afloat, 

Swims round the purple peaks remote:— 

Round purple peaks 
It sails, and seeks 

Blue inlets, and their crystal creeks, 
Where high rocks throw, 
Through deeps below, 

A duplicated golden glow'. 

Far, vague, and dint, 

The mountains swim; 

While on Vesuvius’ misty brim, 

With outstretch’d hands, 

The gray smoke stands 
O’erlooking the volcanic lands. 

In lofty lines, 

’Mid palms and pines, 

And olives, aloes, elms, and vines, 
Sorrento swings 
On sunset wings, 

Where Tasso’s spirit soars and sings. 

Here Ischia smiles 
O’er liquid miles; 

And yonder, bluest of the isles, 

Calm Capri waits, 

Her sapphire gates 
Beguiling to her bright estates. 

I heed not, if 
My rippling skiff 

Float swift or slow from cliff to cliff;— 
With dreamful eyes 
My spirit lies 

Under the walls of Paradise. 

Under the walls 
Where swells and falls 
The Bay’s deep breast at intervals, 

At peace I lie, 

Blown softly by, 

A cloud upon this liquid sky. 

The day, so mild, 

Is Heaven’s own child, 

With Earth and Ocean reconciled; 

The airs I feel 
Around me steal 

Are murmuring to the murmuring keel. 


Over the rail 
My hand I trail 
Within the shadow of the sail, 

A joy intense, 

The cooling sense, 

Glides down my drow'sy indolence. 

With dreamful eyes 
My spirit lies 

Where Summer sings and never dies,— 
O’erveil’d with vines, 

She glow's and shines 
Among her future oil and wines. 

Her children, hid 
The cliffs amid, 

Are gambolling with the gambolling kid ; 
Or dow’n the w'alls, 

With tipsy calls, 

Laugh on the rocks like waterfalls. 

The fisher’s child, 

With tresses wild, 

Unto the smooth, bright sand beguiled, 
With glowing lips 
Sings as she skips, 

Or gazes at the far-off ships. 

Yon deep bark goes 
Where Traffic blows, 

From lands of sun to lands of snows;— 
This happier one, 

Its course is run 

From lands of snow to lands of sun. 

O happy ship, 

To rise and dip, 

With the blue crystal at your lip ! 

O happy crew, 

My heart w T ith you 
Sails, and sails, and sings anew'! 

No more, no more 
The worldly shore 
Upbraids me w'ith its loud uproar! 

With dreamful eyes 
My spirit lies 

Under the w r alls of Paradise! 

Thomas Buchanan Reaix 

At Sea. 

The night was made for cooling shade, 
For silence, and for sleep; 

And w r hen I was a child, I laid 
My hands upon my breast, and pray’d, 
And sank to slumbers deep. 




520 


FIRESIDE ENCYCLOPAEDIA OF POETRY. 


Childlike, as then, I lie to-night, 

And watch my lonely cabin-light. 

Each movement of the swaying lamp 
Shows how the vessel reels, 

And o’er her deck the billows tramp, 

And all her timbers strain and cramp 
With every shock she feels; 

It starts and shudders, while it burns, 
And in its hinged socket turns. 

Now swinging slow, and slanting low, 

It almost level lies: 

And yet I know, while to and fro 
I watch the seeming pendule go 
With restless fall and rise, 

The steady shaft is still upright, 

Poising its little globe of light. 

O hand of God! O lamp of peace! 

O promise of my soul! 

Though weak and toss’d, and ill at ease 
Amid the roar of smiting seas,— 

The ship’s convulsive roll,— 

I own, with love and tender awe, 

Yon perfect type of faith and law. 

A heavenly trust my spirit calms,— 

My soul is fill’d with light; 

The ocean sings his solemn psalms ; 

The wild winds chant; I cross my palms; 

Happy, as if to-night, 

Under the cottage-roof again, 

I heard the soothing summer rain. 

John T. Trowbridge. 

Where Lies the Land? 

Where lies the land to which the ship 
would go? 

Far, far ahead, is all her seamen know ; 

And where the land she travels from? 
Away, 

Far, far behind, is all that they can say. 

On sunny noons upon the deck’s smooth 
face, 

Link’d arm in arm, how pleasant here to 
pace; 

Or, o’er the stern reclining, watch below 
The foaming wake far widening as we go. 

On stormy nights when wild north-westers 
rave, 

llow proud a thing to fight with wind and j 
wave! 


The dripping sailor on the reeling mast 
Exults to bear, and scorns to wish it past. 

Where lies the land to which the ship 
would go ? 

Far, far ahead, is all her seamen know; 
And where the land she travels from ? 
Away, 

Far, far behind, is all that they cau say. 

Arthur Hugh Clough. 

By the Autumn Sea. 

Fair as the dawn of the fairest day, 

Sad as the evening’s tender gray, 

By the latest lustre of sunset kissed, 

That wavers and wanes through an amber 
mist, 

There cometh a dream of the past to me, 
On the desert sands by the autumn sea. 

All heaven is wrapped in a mystic veil, 
And the face of the ocean is dim and pale, 
And there rises a wind from the chill 
north-west 

That seemeth the wail of a soul’s unrest, 
As the twilight falls, and the vapors flee 
Far over the wastes of the autumn sea. 

A single ship through the gloaming glides, 
Upborne on the swell of the seaward tides; 
And above the gleam of her topmast spar 
Are the virgin eyes of the vesper-star 
That shine with an angel’s ruth on me, 

A hopeless waif, by the autumn sea. 

The wings of the ghostly beach-birds gleam 
Through the shimmering surf, and the cur¬ 
lew’s scream 

Falls faintly shrill from the darkening 
height ; 

The first weird sigh on the lips of Night 
Breathes low through the sedge and the 
blasted tree, 

With a murmur of doom, by the autumn 
sea. 

0 sky-enshadowed and yearning main ! 
Your gloom but deepens this human pain; 
Those waves seem big with a nameless care, 
That sky is a type of the heart’s despair, 
As I linger and muse by the sombre lea, 
And the night-shades close on the autumn 
sea. 


Paul Hamilton Hayne. 









Poems of Places. 


The Emigrants in the Ber¬ 
mudas. 

"Where the remote Bermudas ride 
In tli’ ocean’s bosom, unespied— 

From a small boat, that row’d along, 

The list’ning winds received this song ; 

What should we do but sing His praise 
That led us through the watery maze 
Unto an isle so long unknown, 

And yet far kinder than our own? 

Where He the huge sea-monsters wracks 
That lift the deep upon their backs, 

He lands us on a grassy stage, 

Safe from the storms, and prelate’s rage. 
He gave us this eternal spring 
Which here enamels every thing, 

And sends the fowls to us in care, 

On daily visits through the air. 

He hangs in shades the orange bright, 
Like golden lamps in a green night, 

And does in the pomegranates close 
Jewels more rich than Ormus shows. 

He makes the figs our mouths to meet, 
And throws the melons at our feet. 

But apples—plants of such a price 
No tree could ever bear them twice. 

With cedars, chosen by His hand 
From. Lebanon, He stores the land ; 

And makes the hollow seas, that roar, 
Proclaim the ambergris on shore. 

He cast (of which we rather boast) 

The gospel’s pearl upon our coast; 

And in these rocks for us did frame 
A temple, where to sound His name. 

Oh ! let our voice His praise exalt 
Till it arrive at heaven’s vault; 

Which, then, perhaps rebounding, may 
Echo beyond the Mexique bay. 

Thus sang they, in the English boat, 

A holy and a cheerful note ; 


And all the way, to guide their chime, 
With falling oars they kept the time. 

Andrew Marvell. 

The Rivers of England. 

Our floods’ queen, Thames, for ships and 
swans is crowned; 

And stately Severn for her shore is 
praised; 

The crystal Trent for fords and fish re¬ 
nowned, 

And Avon’s fame to Albion’s cliffs is 
raised. 

Carlegion-Chester vaunts her holy Dee; 
York many wonders of her Ouse can 
tell; 

The Peak her Dove, whose banks so fer¬ 
tile be, 

And Kent will say her Medway doth 
excel. 

Cotswold commends her Isis to the Thame ; 
Our northern border boast of Tweed’s 
fair flood ; 

Our western parts extol their Welby’s 
fame, 

And the old Lea brags of the Danish 
blood. 

Michael Drayton. 

Sonnet. 

Composed upon Westminster Bridge. 

Earth has not anything to show more 
fair; 

Dull would he be of soul who could 
pass by 

A sight so touching in its majesty: 

This city now doth like a garment wear 
The beauty of the morning ; silent, bare, 
Ships, toAvers, domes, theatres, and tem¬ 
ples lie 

Open unto the fields, and to the sky; 

All bright and glittering in the smokeless 
air. 





522 


FIRESIDE ENCYCLOPAEDIA OF POETRY. 


Never did sun more beautifully steep t 
In his first splendor valley, rock, or hill; 
Ne’er saw I, never felt, a calm so deep ! 

The river glideth at his own sweet will; ; 
Dear God! the very houses seem asleep, 
And all that mighty heart is lying still. 

William Wordsworth. I 

I 

On the Tombs in Westminster 
Abbey. 

Mortality, behold and fear 
What a change of flesh is here! 

Think how many royal bones 
Sleep within these heaps of stones! 

Here they lie, had realms and lands, 

Who now want strength to stir their 
hands, 

Where from their pulpits seal’d with dust 
They preach, “ In greatness is no trust.” 
Here’s an acre sown indeed 
With the richest, royallest seed 
That the earth did e’er suck in 
Since the first man died for sin ; 

Here the bones of birth have cried, 

“ Though gods they were, as men they 
died!” 

Here are sands, ignoble things, 

Dropt from the ruin’d sides of kings; 

Here’s a world of pomp and state 
Buried in dust, once dead by fate. 

Francis Beaumont. 


Lines on the Mermaid Tavern. 

Souls of poets dead and gone, 

What Elysium have ye known— 
Happy field or mossy cavern— 
Choicer than the Mermaid Tavern? 
Have ye tippled drink more fine 
Than mine host’s Canary wine ? 

Or are fruits of Paradise 
Sweeter than those dainty pies 
Of venison ? O generous food ! 

Drest as though bold Robin Hood 
Would, with his maid Marian, 

Sup and bowse from horn and can. 

I have heard that on a day 
Mine host’s signboard flew away, 
Nobody knew whither, till 
An astrologer’s old quill 


To a sheepskin gave the story : 

Said he saw you in your glory 
Underneath a new old-sign, 

Sipping beverage divine, 

And pledging with contented smack 
The mermaid in the Zodiac! 

Souls of poets dead and gone, 

What Elysium have ye know'll— 
Happy field or mossy cavern— 
Choicer than the Mermaid Tavern? 

John Keats 

Sonnet. 

Written after seeing Windsor Castle. 

From beauteous Windsor’s high and stor¬ 
ied halls 

Where Edward’s chiefs start from the 
glowing walls, 

To my low cot from ivory beds of state, 
Pleased I return unenvious of the great. 

So the bee ranges o’er the varied scenes 
Of corn, of heaths, of fallows, and of 
greens, 

Pervades the thicket, soars above the hill, 
Or murmurs to the meadow’s murmuring 
rill: 

Now haunts old hollow’d oaks, deserted 
cells, 

Now t seeks the low vale lily’s silver bells; 
Sips the warm fragrance of the greenhouse 
bowers, 

And tastes the myrtle and the citron’s 
flowers; 

At length returning to the wonted comb, 
Prefers to all his little straw-built home. 

Thomas Warton. 

On a Distant Prospect of Etob 
College. 

Ye distant spires, ye antique towers, 

That crow r n the wat’ry glade, 

Where grateful Science still adores 
Her Henry’s holy shade; 

And ye that from the stately brow 
Of Windsor’s heights th’ expanse below 
Of grove, of lawn, of mead survey, 
Whose turf, whose shade, wdiose flowers 
among 

Wanders the hoary Thames along 
His silver winding way : 






POEMS OF PLACES. 


523 


Ah, happy hills! ah, pleasing shade! 

Ah, fields beloved in vain !— 

Where once my careless childhood stray’d, 
A stranger yet to pain ! 

I feel the gales that from ye blow 
A momentary bliss bestow, 

As, waving fresh their gladsome wing, 
My weary soul they seem to soothe, 

And, redolent of joy and youth, 

To breathe a second spring. 

Say, Father Thames—for thou hast seen 
Full many a sprightly race, 

Disporting on thy margent green, 

The paths of pleasure trace— 

Who foremost now delight to cleave, 

With pliant arm, thy glassy wave? 

The captive linnet which enthrall ? 
What idle progeny succeed 
To chase the rolling circle’s speed, 

Or urge the flying ball ? 

While some, on urgent business bent, 
Their murmuring labors ply 
'Gainst graver hours that bring constraint 
To sweeten liberty; 

Some bold adventurers disdain 
The limits of their little reign, 

And unknown regions dare descry; 

Still as they run they look behind, 

They hear a voice in every wind, 

And snatch a fearful joy. 

Gay hope is theirs by Fancy fed, 

Less pleasing when possest; 

The tear forgot as soon as shed, 

The sunshine of the breast: 

Theirs buxom health, of rosy hue, 

Wild wit, invention ever new, 

And lively cheer, of vigor born; 

The thoughtless day, the easy night, 

The spirits pure, the slumbers light, 

That fly th’ approach of morn. 

Alas ! regardless of their doom, 

The little victims play; 

No sense have they of ills to come, 

Nor care beyond to-day; 

Yet see, how all around them wait 
The ministers of human fate, 

And black Misfortune’s baleful train ! 
Ah, show them where in ambush stand, 

To seize their prey, the murderous band! 
Ah, tell them, they are men-' 


These shall the fury Passions tear, 

The vultures of the mind, 

Disdainful Anger, pallid Fear, 

And Shame that skulks behind; 

Or pining Love shall waste their youth 
Or Jealousy, with rankling tooth, 

That inly gnaws the secret heart: 

And Envy wan, and faded Care, 
Grim-visaged, comfortless Despair, 

And Sorrow’s piercing dart. 

Ambition this shall tempt to rise, 

Then whirl the wretch from high, 

To bitter Scorn a sacrifice, 

And grinning Infamy. 

The stings of Falsehood those shall try, 
And hard Unkindness’ alter’d eye, 

That mocks the tears it forced to flow 
And keen Remorse, with blood defiled. 
And moody Madness, laughing wild 
Amid severest woe. 

Lo! in the vale of years beneath 
A grisly troop are seen, 

The painful family of Death, 

More hideous than their queen ; 

This racks the joints, this fires the veins, 
That every laboring sinew strains, 

Those in the deeper vitals rage: 

Lo! Poverty, to fill the band, 

That numbs the soul with icy hand, 

And slow-consuming Age. 

To each his suff’rings : all are men, 
Condemn’d alike to groan ; 

The tender for another’s pain, 

Th’ unfeeling for his own. 

Yet, ah! why should they know their fate, 
Since sorrow never comes too late, 

And happiness too swiftly flies ? 
Thought would destroy their paradise. 

No more:—where ignorance is bliss, 

’Tis folly to be wise! 

Thomas Gkay. 

Elegiac Stanzas. 

Suggested by a Picture of Peele Cas 
tle in a Storm, painted by Si r George 
Beaumont. 

I was thy Neighbor once, thou rugged Pile ! 
Four summer weeks I dwelt in sight of 
tnec. 







524 


FIRESIDE ENCYCLOPAEDIA OF POETRY. 


J saw thee every day ; and all the while 
Thy Form was sleeping on a glassy sea. 

So pure the sky, so quiet was the air ! 

So like, so very like, was day to day ! 

Whene’er I look’d, thy Image still was 
there; 

It trembled, but it never pass’d away. 

How perfect was the calm! it seem’d no j 
sleep; 

ISTo mood, which season takes away or 
brings: 

I could have fancied that the mighty 
Deep 

Was even the gentlest of all gentle 
Things. 

Ah ! then, if mine had been the Painter’s , 
hand, 

To express what then I saw; and add 
the gleam, 

The light that never was on sea or land, 

The consecration, and the Poet’s dream ; 

I would have planted thee, thou Hoary 
Pile ! 

Amid a world how different from this ! 

Beside a sea that could not cease to smile ; 
On tranquil land, beneath a sky of bliss. 

A Picture had it been of lasting ease, 
Elysian quiet, without toil or strife ; 

No motion but the moving tide, a breeze, 

Or merely silent Nature’s breathing life, j 

Such, in the fond illusion of my heart, 

Such Picture would I at that time have 
made, 

1 I 

And seen the soul of truth in every part; 

A faith, a trust, that could not be be¬ 
tray’d. 

So once it would have been,—’tisso no more; 1 
I have submitted to a new control: 

A. power is gone, which nothing can re- ! 
store; 

A deep distress hath humanized my 
Soul. 

Not for a moment could I now behold 
A smiling sea, and be what I have been: 

The feeling of my loss will ne’er be old; 
This, which I know, I speak with mind 
serene. 


Then, Beaumont, Friend ! who would have 
been the Friend, 

If he had liv’d, of him whom I deplore* 
This Work of thine I blame not, but com¬ 
mend ; 

This sea in anger, and that dismal shore. 

Oh ’tis a passionate Work !—yet wise and 
well; 

Well chosen is the spirit that is here ; 
That Hulk which labors in the deadly 
swell, 

This rueful sky, this pageantry of fear ! 

And this huge Castle, standing here sub¬ 
lime, 

I love to see the look with which it 
braves, 

Cased in the unfeeling armor of old time, 
The lightning, the fierce wind, and 
trampling waves. 

Farewell, farewell the heart that lives 
alone, 

Housed in a dream, at distance from 
the Kind! 

Such happiness, wherever it be known, 

Is to be pitied ; for ’tis surely blind. 

But welcome, fortitude and patient cheer, 
And frequent sights of what is to be 
borne! 

Such sights, or worse, as are before me 
here,— 

Not without hope we suffer and we 
mourn. 

William Wordsworth. 

Grongar Hill. 

Silent nymph, with curious eye ! 

Who, the purple eve, dost lie 
On the mountain’s lonely van, 

Beyond the noise of busy man, 

Painting fair the form of things, 

While the yellow linnet sings, 

Or the tuneful nightingale 
Charms the forest with her tale,— 

Come, with all thy various hues, 

Come and aid thy sister Muse. 

Now, while Phoebus, riding high, 

Gives lustre to the land and sky, 
Grongar Hill invites my song,— 

Draw the landscape bright and strong: 







POEMS OF PLACES. 




Grougar, in whose mossy cells 
Sweetly musing Quiet dwells; 

Grongar, in whose silent shade, 

For the modest Muses made, 

So oft I have, the evening still, 

At the fountain of a rill, 

Sat upon a flowery bed, 

With my hand beneath my head, 

While stray’d my eyes o’er Towy’s flood, 
Over mead and over wood, 

From house to house, from hill to hill, 
Till Contemplation had her fill. 

About his checker’d sides I wind, 

And leave his brooks and meads behind, 
And groves and grottos where I lay, 

And vistas shooting beams of day. 

Wide and wider spreads the vale, 

As circles on a smooth canal. 

The mountains round, unhappy fate ! 
'Sooner or later, of all height, 

Withdraw their summits from the skies, 
And lessen as the others rise. 

Still the prospect wider spreads, 

Adds a thousand woods and meads ; 

Still it widens, widens still, 

And sinks the newly-risen hill. 

Now I gain the mountain’s brow ; 
What a landscape lies below ! 

No clouds, no vapors intervene ; 

But the gay, the open scene 
Does the face of Nature show, 

In all the hues of heaven’s bow ; 

And, swelling to embrace the light, 
Spreads around beneath the sight. 

Old castles on the cliffs arise, 

Proudly towering in the skies ; 

Bushing from the woods, the spires 
Seem from hence ascending fires ; 

Half his beams Apollo sheds 
On the yellow mountain-heads^ 

Gilds the fleeces of the flocks, 

And glitters on the broken rocks. 

Below me trees unnumber’d rise, 
Beautiful in various dyes : 

The gloomy pine, the poplar blue, 

The yellow beech, the sable yew, 

The slender fir that taper grows, 

The sturdy oak with broad-spread boughs; 
And, beyond the purple grove, 

Haunt of Phyllis, queen of love ! 

Gaudy as the opening dawn, 

Lies a long and level lawn, 


On which a dark hill, steep and high, 
Holds and charms the wandering eye. 
Deep are his feet in Towy’s flood : 

His sides are clothed with waving 
wood, 

And ancient towers crown his brow, 
That cast an awful look below ; 

Whose ragged wall the ivy creeps, 

And with her arms from falling keeps; 
So both a safety from the wind 
In mutual dependence find. 

’Tis now the raven’s bleak abode ; 

’Tis now the apartment of the toad ; 
And there the fox securely feeds; 

And there the poisonous adder breeds, 
Conceal’d in ruins, moss, and weeds ; 
While, ever and anon, there fall 
Huge heaps of hoary moulder’d wall. 
Yet Time has seen,—that lifts the low 
And level lays the lofty brow,— 

Has seen this broken pile complete, 

Big with the vanity of state. 

But transient is the smile of Fate ! 

A little rule, a little sway, 

A sunbeam in a winter’s day, 

Is all the proud and mighty have 
Between the cradle and the grave. 

And see the rivers, how they run 
Through woods and meads, in shade and 
sun, 

Sometimes swift, sometimes slow,— 
Wave succeeding wave, they go 
A various journey to the deep, 

Like human life to endless sleep ! 

Thus is Nature’s vesture wrought, 

To instruct our wandering thought: 
Thus she dresses green and gay, 

To disperse our cares away. 

Ever charming, ever new, 

When will the landscape tire the view ? 
The fountain’s fall, the river’s flow; 

.The woody valleys, warm and low ; 

The windy summit, wild and high, 
Roughly rushing on the sky; 

The pleasant seat, the ruin’d tower, 

The naked rock, the shady bower; 

The town and village, dome and farm — 
Each gives each a double charm, 

As pearls upon an Ethiop’s arm. 

See on the mountain’s southern side 
Where the prospect opens wide, 

Where the evening gilds the tide; 










526 


FI BESIDE ENCYCLOPAEDIA OF POETRY. 


How close and small the hedges lie ! 
What streaks of meadow cross the eye! 
A step, methinks, may pass the stream, 
So little distant dangers seem ; 

So we mistake the Future’s face, 

Eyed through Hope’s deluding glass ; 
As yon summits, soft aud fair, 

Clad in colors of the air, 

Which, to those who journey near, 
Barren, brown, and rough appear ; 

Still we tread the same coarse way, 

The present’s still a cloudy day. 

Oh, may I with myself agree, 

And never covet what I see ; 

Content me with an humble shade, 

My passions tamed, my wishes laid ; 

For while our wishes wildly roll, 

We banish quiet from the soul: 

’Tis thus the busy beat the air, 

And misers gather wealth and care. 

Now, even now, my joys run high, 

As on the mountain-turf I lie ; 

While the wanton Zephyr sings, 

And in the vale perfumes his wings ; 
While the waters murmur deep ; 

While the shepherd charms his sheep, 
While the birds unbounded fly, 

And with music fill the sky, 

Now, even now, my joys run high. 

Be full, ye courts: be great who will; 
Search for Peace with all your skill: 
Open wide the lofty door, 

Seek her on the marble floor. 

In vain you search ; she is not there! 

In vain you search the domes of Care ! 
Grass and flowers Quiet treads, 

On the meads and mountain-heads, 
Along with Pleasure, close allied, 

Ever by each other’s side ; 

And often, by the murmuring rill, 

Hears the thrush, while all is still 
Within the groves of Grongar Hill. „ 

John Dyer. 

On Revisiting the River 

L ODD ON. 

A.H! what a weary race my feet have run 
Since first I trod thy banks with alders 
crown’d, 

And thought my way w*as all through 
fairy ground, 

Beneath the azure sky and golden sun— 


When first my Muse to lisp her notes be¬ 
gun. 

While pensive memory traces back the 
round 

Which fills the varied interval between; 

Much pleasure, more of sorrow, marks the 
scene. 

Sweet native stream ! those skies and suns 
so pure, 

No more return to cheer my evening 
road: 

Yet still one joy remains, that not ob¬ 
scure 

Nor useless, all my vacant days have 
flow’d 

From youth’s gay dawn to manhood’s 
prime mature, 

Nor with the Muse’s laurel unbestow’d. 

Thomas Warton. 


The Cataract of Lodore. 

“ How does the water 
Come down at Lodore ?” 

My little boy ask’d me 
Thus, once on a time; 

And moreover he task’d me 
To tell him in rhyme. 

Anon at the word, 

There first came one daughter, 

And then came another, 

To second and third 
The request of their brother, 
And to hear how the water 
Comes down at Lodore, 

With its rush and its roar, 

As many a time 
They had seen it before. 

So I told them in rhyme, 

For of rhymes I had store; 

And ’twas in my vocation 
For their recreation 
That so I should sing; 

Because I w T as Laureate 
To them and the King. 

From its sources which well 
In the tarn on the fell; 

From its fountains 
In the mountains, 

Its rills and its gills; 





POEMS OF PLACES. 


527 


Through moss and through brake 
It runs and it creeps 
For a while, till it sleeps 
In its own little lake. 

And thence at departing, 
Awakening and starting, 

It runs through the reeds, 

And away it proceeds, 

Through meadow and glade, 

In sun and in shade, 

And through the wood-shelter, 

Among crags in its flurry, 
Helter-skelter, 

Hurrv-skurry. 

Here it comes sparkling, 

And there it lies darkling, 

Now smoking and frothing 
Its tumult and wrath in, 

Till in this rapid race 
On which it is bent, 

It reaches the place 
Of its steep descent. 

The cataract strong 
Then plunges along, 

Striking and raging 
As if a war waging 
Its caverns and rocks among; 

Rising and leaping, 

Sinking and creeping, 

Swelling and sweeping, 

Showering and springing, 

Flying and flinging, 

Writhing and ringing, 

Eddying and whisking, 

Spouting and frisking, 

Turning and twisting, 

Around and around 
With endless rebound; 

Smiting and fighting, 

A sight to delight in; 
Confounding, astounding, 

Dizzying and deafening the ear with its 
sound. 

Collecting, projecting, 

Receding and speeding, 

And shocking and rocking, 

And darting and parting, 

And threading and spreading, 

And whizzing and hissing, 

And dripping and skipping, 

And hitting and splitting, 


And shining and twining, 

And rattling and battling, 

And shaking and quaking, 

And pouring and roaring, 

And waving and raving, 

And tossing and crossing, 

And flowing and going, 

And running and stunning, 

And foaming and roaming, 

And dinning and spinning, 

And dropping and hopping, 

And working and jerking, 

And guggling and struggling, 

And heaving and cleaving, 

And moaning and groaning; 

And glittering and frittering, 

And gathering and feathering, 

And whitening and brightening, 
And quivering and shivering, 

And hurrying and skurrying, 

And thundering and floundering; 

Dividing and gliding and sliding, 

And falling and brawling and sprawling, 

And driving and riving and striving, 

And sprinkling and twinkling and wrink¬ 
ling, 

And sounding and bounding and round¬ 
ing, 

And bubbling and troubling and doub¬ 
ling, 

And grumbling and rumbling and tumb¬ 
ling, 

And clattering and battering and shat¬ 
tering ; 

Retreating and beating and meeting and 
sheeting, 

Delaying and straying and playing and 
spraying, 

Advancing and prancing and glancing and 
dancing, 

Recoiling, turmoiling and toiling and 
boiling, 

And gleaming and streaming and steaming 
and beaming, 

And rushing and flushing and brushing 
and gushing, 

And flapping and rapping and clapping 
and slapping, 

And curling and whirling and purling and 
twirling, 







528 


FIRESIDE ENCYCLOPAEDIA OF POETRY. 


And thumping and plumping and bumping 
and jumping, 

And dashing and flashing and splashing 
and clashing; 

And so never ending, but always descend¬ 
ing, 

Sounds and motions for ever and ever are 
blending, 

All at once and all o’er, with a mighty 
uproar, 

And this way the water comes down at 
Lodore. 

Robert Southey. 


Yarrow Vnvisited. 

From Stirling Castle we had seen 
The mazy Forth unravell’d ; 

Had trod the banks of Clyde and Tay, 
And with the Tweed had traveled; 

And when we came to Clovenford, 

Then said my “winsome Marrow'' 

“ Whate’er betide, we’ll turn aside, 

And see the Braes of Yarrow.” 

“ Let Yarrow Folk, frae Selkirk Town, 
Who have been buying, selling, 

Go back to Yarrow, ’tis their own; 

Each Maiden to her Dwelling! 

On Yarrow’s banks let herons feed, 

Hares couch, and rabbits burrow ! 

But we will downward with the Tweed, 
Nor turn aside to Yarrow. 

“ There’s Galla Water, Leader Haughs, 
Both lying right before us; 

And Dryborough, where with the chiming 
Tweed 

The Lintwhites sing in chorus ; 

There’s pleasant Tiviotdale, a land 
Made blithe with plough and harrow': 
Why throw away a needful day 
To go in search of Yarrow? 

“ What’s Yarrow but a River bare, 

That glides the dark hills under? 

There are a thousand such elsewhere 
As worthy of your w r onder.” 

—Strange words they seem’d of slight and 
scorn: 

My true-love sigh’d for sorrow; 

And look’d me in the face, to think 
I thus could speak of Yarrow'! 


“ Oh! green,” said T, “ are Yarrow’s 
Holms 

And sweet is Yarrow flowing! 

Fair hangs the apple frae the rock, 

But we will leave it growing. 

O’er hilly path, and open Strath, 

We’ll wander Scotland thorough : 

But, though so near, we will not turn 
Tnto the Dale of Yarrow. 

“ Let beeves and home-bred kine partake 
The sweets of Burn-mill meadow; 

The sw'an on still St. Mary’s Lake 
Float double, swan and shadow ! 

We will not see them; will not go, 

To-day, nor yet to-morrow'; 

Enough if in our hearts we know 
There’s such a place as Yarrow. 

“ Be Yarrow Stream unseen, unknown! 

It must, or we shall rue it: 

We have a vision of our own ; 

Ah, why should we undo it? 

The treasured dreams of times long past, 
We’ll keep them, winsome Marrow! 

For when we’re there, although ’tis fair, 
’Twill be another Yarrow! 

“ If Care with freezing years should come 
And wandering seem but folly,— 

Should we be loath to stir from home, 

And yet be melancholy ; 

Should life be dull, and spirits low, 

’Twill soothe us in our sorrow, 

That earth has something yet to show, 

The bonny Holms of Yarrow!” 

^ William Wordsworth. 


Yarro w Visited. 

And is this—Yarrow ?—This the Stream 
Of which my fancy cherish’d, 

So faithfully, a waking dream? 

An image that hath perish’d! 

Oh that some Minstrel’s harp were near, 
To utter notes of gladness, 

And chase this silence from the air, 

That fills my heart with sadness! 

Yet why ?—a silvery current flows 
With uncontroll’d meanderings; 

Nor have these eyes by greener hills 
! Been soothed, in all my wanderings. 









POEMS OF PLACES. 


5211 


And, through her depths, Saint Mary’s 
Lake 

Is visibly delighted; 

For not a feature of those hills 
Is in the mirror slighted. 

A blue sky bends o’er Yarrow Yale, 

Save where that pearly whiteness 

Is round the rising sun diffused, 

A tender hazy brightness; 

Mild dawn of promise! that excludes 
All profitless dejection; 

Though not unwilling here to admit 
A pensive recollection. 

Where was it that the famous Flower 
Of Yarrow Vale lay bleeding? 

His bed perchance was yon smooth mound 
On which the herd is feeding : 

And haply from this crystal pool, 

Now peaceful as the morning, 

The Water-wraith ascended thrice,— 

And gave his doleful warning. 

Delicious is the Lay that sings 
The haunts of happy Lovers, 

The path that leads them to the grove, 

The leafy grove that covers : 

And Pity sanctifies the verse 
That paints, by strength of sorrow, 

The unconquerable strength of love; 

Bear witness, rueful Yarrow ! 

But thou, that didst appear so fair 
To fond Imagination, 

Dost rival in the light of day 
Her delicate creation: 

Meek loveliness is round thee spread, 

A softness still and holy ; 

The grace of forest charms decay’d, 

And pastoral melancholy. 

That region left, the Vale unfolds 
Rich groves of lofty stature, 

With Yarrow winding through the pomp 
Of cultivated Nature; 

And, rising from those lofty groves, 

Behold a ruin hoary! 

The shatter’d front of Newark’s Towers, 
Benown’d in Border story. 

Fair scenes for childhood’s opening bloom, 
For sportive youth to stray in ; 

34 


For manhood to enjoy his strength; 

And age to wear away in ! 

Yon Cottage seems a bower of bliss, 

A covert for protection 

Of tender thoughts that nestle there, 

The brood of chaste affection. 

How sweet, on this autumnal day, 

The wild-wood fruits to gather, 

And on my True-love’s forehead plant 
A crest of blooming heather! 

And what if I enwreathed my own? 

’Twere no offence to reason; 

The sober Hills thus deck their brows 
To meet the wintry season. 

I see—but not by sight alone, 

Loved Yarrow, have I won thee; 

A ray of Fancy still survives— 

Her sunshine plays upon thee! 

Thy ever-youthful waters keep 
A course of lively pleasure; 

And gladsome notes my lips can breathe, 
Accordant to the measure. 

The vapors linger round the Heights, 

They melt—and soon must vanish; 

One hour is theirs, nor more is mine— 

Sad thought, which I would banish, 

But that I know, where’er I go, 

Thy genuine image, Yarrow! 

Will dwell with me—to heighten joy, 

And cheer my mind in sorrow. 

William Wordsworth. 

Yarrow Revisited. 

The gallant Youth who may have gain’d, 
Or seeks, a “ Winsome Marrow,” 

Was but an Infant in the lap 
When first I look’d on Yarrow; 

Once more, by Newark’s Castle-gate 
Long left without a Warder, 

I stood, look’d, listen’d, and with Thee, 
Great Minstrel of the Border ! 

Grave thoughts ruled wide on that sweet day, 
Their dignity installing 

In gentle bosoms, while sere leaves 
Were on the bough, or falling ; 

But breezes play’d, and sunshine gleam’d — 
The forest to embolden ; 

Redden’d the fiery hues, and shot 
Transparence through the goldeu 






530 


FIRESIDE ENCYCLOPAEDIA OF POETRY. 


For busy thoughts the Stream flow’d on 
In foamy agitation ; 

And slept in many a crystal pool 
For quiet contemplation : 

No public and no private care 
The freeborn mind enthralling, 

We made a day of happy hours, 

Our happy days recalling. 

Brisk Youth appear’d, the Morn of youth, 
With freaks of graceful folly,— 

Life’s temperate Noon, her sober Eve, 

Her Night not melancholy, 

Past, present, future, all appear’d 
In harmony united, 

Like guests that meet, and some from far, 
By cordial love invited. 

And if, as Yarrow, through the woods 
And down the meadow ranging, 

Did meet us with unalter’d face, 

Though we were changed and changing ; 
If, then, some natural shadows spread 
Our inward prospect over, 

The soul’s deep valley was not slow 
Its brightness to recover. 

Eternal blessings on the Muse, 

And her divine employment! 

The blameless Muse, who trains her Sons 
For hope and calm enjoyment; 

Albeit sickness lingering yet 
Has o’er their pillow brooded, 

And Care waylay their steps—a sprite 
Not easily eluded. 

For thee, O Scott! compell’d to change 
Green Eildon-hill and Cheviot 
For warm Vesuvio’s vine-clad slopes ; 

And leave thy Tweed and Teviot 
For mild Sorrento’s breezy waves ; 

^ May classic Fancy, linking 
'With native Fancy her fresh aid, 

Preserve thy heart from sinking ! 

Oh ! while they minister to thee, 

Each vying with the other, 

May Health return to mellow Age, 

With Strength, her venturous brother; 
And Tiber, and each brook and rill 
Renown’d in song and story, 

With unimagined beauty shine, 

Nor lose one ray of glory ! 


| For Thou, upon a hundred streams, 

By tales of love and sorrow, 
i Of faithful love, undaunted truth, 

Hast shed the power of Yarrow; 

And streams unknown, hills yet unseen, 
Where’er thy path invite thee. 

At parent Nature’s grateful call. 

With gladness must requite Thee. 

i A gracious welcome shall be thine, 

Such looks of love and honor 
As thy own Yarrow gave to me 
When first I gazed upon her 
: Beheld what I had fear’d to see, 

Unwilling to surrender 
Dreams treasured up from early days, 

The holy and the tender. 

And what, for this frail world, were all 
That mortals do or sutler 
Did no responsive harp, no pen, 

Memorial tribute offer ? 

Yea, wliat were mighty Nature’s self, 

Her features, could they win us, 
Unhelp’d by the poetic voice 
That hourly speaks within us ? 

Nor deem that localized Romance 
Plays false with our affections ; 
Unsanctifies our tears—made sport 
For fanciful dejections: 

Ah, no ! the visions of the past 
Sustain the heart in feeling 
Life as she is—our changeful Life, 

With friends and kindred dealing. 

Bear witness, Ye, whose thoughts that day 
In Yarrow’s groves were centred ; 

Who through the silent portal arch 
Of mouldering Newark enter’d, 

And clomb the winding stair that once 
Too timidly was mounted 
By the “ Last Minstrel ” (not the last), 

Ere he his Tale recounted. 

Flow on for ever, Yarrow Stream ! 

Fulfil thy pensive duty, 

Well pleased that future Bards should 
chant 

For simple hearts thy beauty, 

To dreamlight dear while yet unseen, 

Dear to the common sunshine, 

And dearer still, as now I feel, 

To memory’s shadowy moonshine ! 

William Wordsworth. 











POEMS OF PLACES. 


531 


Alnwick Castle. 

Home of the Percy’s high-born race, 
Home of their beautiful and brave, 
Alike their birth- and burial-place, 

Their cradle and their grave ! 

Still sternly o’er the castle-gate 
Their house’s Lion stands in state, 

As in his proud departed hours, 

And warriors frown in stone on high, 

And feudal banners “ flout the sky ” 
Above his princely towers. 

A gentle hill its side inclines, 

Lovely in England’s fadeless green, 

To meet the quiet stream which winds 
Through this romantic scene 
As silently and sweetly still, 

As when, at evening, on that hill, 

While summer’s wind blew soft and 
low, 

Seated by gallant Hotspur’s side, 

His Katherine was a happy bride, 

A thousand years ago. 

Gaze on the Abbey’s ruin’d pile: 

Does not the succoring ivy, keeping 
Her watch around it, seem to smile, 

As o’er a loved one sleeping? 

One solitary turret gray 
Still tells, in melancholy glory, 

The legend of the Cheviot day, 

The Percy’s proudest border-story. 

That day its roof was triumph’s arch ; 

Then rang, from aisle to pictured dome, 
The light step of the soldier’s march, 

The music of the trump and drum; 

And babe and sire, the old, the young, 

And the monk’s hymn, and minstrel’s 
song, 

And woman’s pure kiss, sweet and long, 
Welcomed her warrior home. 

Wild roses by the Abbey towers 
Are gay in their young bud and bloom ; 
They w r ere born of a race of funeral flowers 
That garlanded, in long-gone hours, 

A templar’s knightly tomb. 

He died, his sword in his mailed hand, 

On the holiest spot of the Blessed Land, 
Where the Cross was damp’d with his 
dying breath, % 

When blood ran free as festal wine, 


And the sainted air of Palestine 
Was thick with the darts of death. 

Wise with the lore of centuries, 

What tales, if there be “ tongues in trees,” 
Those giant oaks could tell 
Of beings born and buried here; 

Tales of the peasant and the peer, 

Tales of the bridal and the bier, 

The welcome and farewell, 

Since on their boughs the startled bird 
First, in her twilight slumbers, heard 
The Norman’s curfew-bell! 

I wander’d through the lofty halls 
Trod by the Percys of old fame, 

And traced upon the chapel walls 
Each high, heroic name, 

From him who once his standard set 
Where now, o’er mosque and minaret, 
Glitter the Sultan’s crescent moons, 

To him who, when a younger son, 

Fought for King George at Lexington, 

A major of dragoons. 

That last half stanza—it has dash’d 
From my warm lip the sparkling cup. 
The light that o’er my eyebeam flash’d, 
The power that bore my spirit up 
Above this bank-note world—is gone ; 

And Alnwick’s but a market-town, 

And this, alas! its market-day, 

And beasts and borderers throng the way 
Oxen and bleating lambs in lots, 
Northumbrian boors and plaided Scots, 
Men in the coal and cattle line; 

From Teviot’s bard and hero land, 

From royal Berwick’s beach of sand, 

From Wooller, Morpeth, Hexham, and 
Newcastle-upon-Tyne. 

These are not the romantic times 
So beautiful in Spenser’s rhymes, 

So dazzling to the dreaming boy: 

Ours are the days of fact, not fable, 

Of knights, but not of the Round Table, 
Of Bailie Jarvie, not Rob Roy: 

’Tis what “ our President,” Monroe, 

Has called “the era of good feeling •* 
The Highlander, the bitterest foe 
To modern laws, has felt their blow, 
Consented to be tax’d, and vote, 

And put on pantaloons and coat, 

And leave off cattle-stealing: 





532 


FIRESIDE ENCYCLOPAEDIA OF POETRY. 


Lord Stafford mines for coal and salt, 

The Duke of Norfolk deals in malt, 

The Douglass in red herrings; 

And noble name and cultured land, 
Palace, and park, and vassal-band, 

Are powerless to the notes of hand 
Of Rothschild or the Barings. 

The age of bargaining, said Burke, 

Has come: to-day the turban’d Turk 
(Sleep, Richard of the lion heart! 

Sleep on, nor from your cerements start) 

Is England’s friend and fast ally ; 

The Moslem tramples on the Greek, 

And on the Cross and altar-stone, 

And Christendom looks tamely on, 

And hears the Christian maiden shriek, 
And sees the Christian father die; 

And not a sabre-blow is given 
For Greece and fame, for faith and heav¬ 
en, 

By Europe’s craven chivalry. 

you’ll ask if yet the Percy lives 
In the arm’d pomp of feudal state? 

The present representatives 

Of Hotspur and his “ gentle Kate ” 

Are some half dozen serving-men 
In the drab coat of William Penn ; 

A chambermaid, whose lip and eye, 

And cheek, and brown hair, bright and 
curling 

Spoke Nature’s aristocracy; 

And one, half groom, half seneschal, 

Who bowed me through court, bower, and 
hall, 

From donjon-keep to turret wall, 

For ten-and-sixpence sterling. 

Fitz-Greene Hai.i.eck. 


Hellvellyn. 

I climb’d the dark brow of the mighty 
Hellvellyn. 

Lakes and mountains beneath me gleam’d 
misty and wide; 

All was still, save by fits, when the eagle 
was yelling, 

And starting around me the echoes re¬ 
plied. 


On the right, Striden-edge round the Red- 
tarn was bending, 

And Catchedicam its left verge was defend- 
in o' 

1 A 1 o> 

One huge nameless rock in the front was 
ascending, 

When I mark’d the sad spot where the 
wanderer had died. 

Dark green was that spot ’mid the brown 
mountain-heather, 

Where the Pilgrim of Nature lay 
stretch’d in decay, 

Like the corpse of an outcast abandon’d 
to weather, 

Till the mountain-winds wasted the 
ten ant less clay. 

; Nor yet quite deserted, though lonely ex¬ 
tended, 

For, faithful in death, his mute favorite 
attended, 

The much-loved remains of her master de¬ 
fended, 

And chased the hill-fox and the raven 
away. 

i 

How long didst thou think that his silence 
was slumber? 

When the wind waved his .garment, how 
oft didst thou start? 

How many long days and long weeks didst 
thou number, 

Ere he faded before thee, the friend of 
thy heart? 

i And, oh, was it meet, that—no requiem 
read o’er him, 

No mother to weep, and no friend to de¬ 
plore him, 

And thou, little guardian, alone stretch’d 
before him,— 

LTnhonor’d the Pilgrim from life should 
depart ? 

When a Prince to the fate of the Peasant 
has yielded, 

The tapestry waves dark round the dim- 
lighted hall; 

With scutcheons of silver the coffin is 
shielded, 

And pages stand mute by the canopied 
pall: 









POEMS OF PLACES. 


533 


Through the courts at deep midnight the 
torches are gleaming; 

In the proudly-arch’d chapel the banners 
are beaming; 

Far adown the long aisle sacred music is 
streaming, 

Lamenting a Chief of the People should 
fall. 

But meeter for thee, gentle lover of Nature, 

To lay down thy head like the meek 
mountain-lamb, 

When, ’wilder’d, he drops from some cliff 
huge in stature, 

And draws his last sob by the side of his 
dam. 

And more stately thy couch by this desert 
lake lying, 

Thy obsequies sung by the gray plover 

flying. 

With one faithful friend but to witness thy 
dying, 

In the arms of Hellvellyn and Catche- 
dicam. 

Sir Walter Scott. 


Ode to Leven Water. 

On Leven’s banks, while free to rove, 

And tune the rural pipe to love, 

I envied not the happiest swain 
That ever trod the Arcadian plain. 

Pure stream, in whose transparent wave 
My youthful limbs I wont to lave ; 

No torrents stain thy limpid source, 

No rocks impede thy dimpling course, 
That sweetly warbles o’er^ts bed, 

With white round polish’d pebbles spread; 
While, lightly poised, the scaly brood 
In myriads cleave thy crystal flood; 

The springing trout in speckled pride, 

The salmon, monarch of the tide ; 

The ruthless pike, intent on war, 

The silver eel, and mottled par. 

Devolving from thy parent lake, 

A charming maze thy waters make, 

By bowers of birch and groves of pine, 
And hedges flower’d with eglantine. 

Still on thy banks, so gayly green, 

May numerous flocks and herds be seen : 
And lasses chanting o’er the pail, 

And shepherds piping in the dale ; 


And ancient faith that knows no guile, 

And industry embrown’d with toil; 

And hearts resolved and hands prepared 

The blessings they enjoy to guard ! 

Tobias Smollett. 

Flow Gently, Sweet Alton. 

Flow gently, sweet Afton, among thy 
green braes, 

Flow gently, I’ll sing thee a song in thy 
praise; 

My Mary’s asleep by thy murmuring 
stream, 

Flow gently, sweet Afton, disturb not her 
dream. 

Thou stock-dove whose echo resounds 
through the glen, 

Ye wild whistling blackbirds in yon thorny 
den, 

Thou green-crested lapwing, thy scream¬ 
ing forbear, 

I charge you disturb not my slumbering 
fair. 

How lofty, sweet Afton, thy neighboring 
hills, 

Far mark’d with the courses of clear 
winding rills; 

There daily I wander as noon rises high, 

My flocks and my Mary’s sweet cot in my 
eye. 

How pleasant thy banks and green valleys 
below, 

Where wild in the woodlands the prim¬ 
roses blow ; 

There oft, as mild Evening weeps over the 
lea, 

The sweet-scented birk shades my Mary 
and me. 

i Thy crystal stream, Afton, how lovely it 
glides, 

And winds by the cot where my Mary re¬ 
sides ; 

How wanton thy waters her snowy feet lave, 

As, gathering sweet flow’rets, she stems 
thy clear wave! 

Flow gently, sweet Afton, among thv green 
braes, 

Flow gently, sweet river, the theme of my 
lays; 








534 


FIRESIDE ENCYCLOPAEDIA OF POETRY. 


My Mary’s asleep by thy murmuring 
stream, 

Flow gently, sweet Afton, disturb not her 
dream. 

Robert Burns. 

The Bells of Shan don. 

Sabbata pango; 

Funera plango; 

Solemnia clango. 

Inscription on an Old Bell. 

With deep affection 
And recollection 
I often think of 
Those Shandon bells, 

Whose sounds so wild would, 

In the days of childhood, 

Fling round my cradle 
Their magic spells. 

On this I ponder 
Where’er I wander, 

And thus grow fonder, 

Sweet Cork, of thee— 

With thy bells of Shandon, 

That sound so grand on 
The pleasant waters 
Of the river Lee. 

I’ve heard bells chiming 
Full many a clime in, 

Tolling sublime in 
Cathedral shrine, 

While at a glibe rate 
Brass tongues would vibrate; 

But all their music 
Spoke naught like thine. 

For memory, dwelling 
On each proud swelling 
Of the belfry knelling 
Its bold notes free, 

Made the bells of Shandon 
Sound far more grand on 
The pleasant waters 
Of the river Lee. 

I’ve heard bells tolling 
Old Adrian’s Mole in, 

Their thunder rolling 
From the Vatican— 

And cymbals glorious 
Swinging uproarious 


In the gorgeous turrets 
Of Notre Dame; 

But thy sounds were sweeter 
Than the dome of Peter 
Flings o’er the Tiber, 

Pealing solemnly. 

Oh ! the bells of Shandon 
Sound far more grand on 
The pleasant waters 
Of the river Lee. 

There’s a bell in Moscow ; 

While on tower and kiosk, oh, 

In Saint Sophia 
The Turkman gets, 

And loud in air 
Calls men to prayer 
From the tapering summit 
Of tall minarets. 

Such empty phantom 
I freely grant them ; 

But there’s an anthem 
More dear to me— 

’Tis the Bells of Shandon, 

That sound so grand on 
The pleasant waters 
Of the river Lee. 

Francis Mahony (“Father Prout”). 


To a Friend. 

ON RETURNING A COPY OF HALLECKS 
POEMS. 

I here return, with many thanks, 

Our Halleck’s tale of Alnwick castle; 
And if this be a world of banks ,— 

While bards like him so well can weave 
A song to make us laugh or grieve, 

Of modern times or ancient wassail,— 
They must be banks by gushing streams, 
Bright places for poetic dreams 
Of wild-flowers, not of notes. 

Where all, instead of jingling cash, 

The shaded waters coolly plash 
And woodland music floats. 

I ever loved the Percy name 
Since on the battle ground I stood, 

And heard a tale of one, who came 
In sorrow o’er the ocean flood, 





POEMS OF PLACES. 


535 


For hopeless love, or broken faith, 

In one who vowed to love till death. 

Upon the battle-field he died, 

Where many a brow was blanched beside,— 
And life-blood dimmed the lucid shine 
Of thy bright waters, Brandywine! 

It was a man of hoary hair 
Who told the tale to me, with all 
That waking memory could recall 
Of that young gallant one—who there 
Within our quiet burial place, 

Afar from all his “ high born race,” 
With naught of pomp, or solemn prayer, 
Or chaunted hymn, or weeping crowd, 
His war-garb for his only shroud,— 

Was laid to rest. The imaged fair 
Of her he loved, still fondly prest 
In death and darkness to his breast. 

Elizabeth Margaret Chandler. 


The Nile. 

It - flows through old hushed .-Egypt and 
its sands, 

Like some grave mighty thought thread¬ 
ing a dream, 

And times and things, as in that vision, 
seem 

Keeping along it their eternal stands,— 

Caves, pillars, pyramids, the shepherd 
bands 

That roamed through the young world, 
the glory extreme 

Of high Sesostris, and that southern 
beam, 

The laughing queen that caught the world’s 
great hands. 

Then comes a mightier silence, stern and 
strong, 

As of a world left empty of its throng, 

And the void weighs on us ; and then we 
wake, 

And hear the fruitful steam lapsing along 

’Twixt villages, and think how we shall 
take 

Our own calm journey on for human sake. 

Leigh Hunt. 


S WEET INNISFA LLEN. 

Sweet Innisfallen, fare thee well, 

** May calm and sunshine long be thine 1 
How fair thou art let others tell— 

To feel how fair shall long be mine. 

Sweet Innisfallen, long shall dwell 
In memory’s dream that sunny smile, 
Which o’er thee on that evening fell 
When first I saw thy fairy isle. 

’Twas light, indeed, too blest for one, 

Who had to turn to paths of care— 
Through crowded haunts again to run, 

And leave thee bright and silent there ; 

IS o more unto thy shores to come, 

But, on the world’s rude ocean tost, 
Dream of thee sometimes as a home 
Of sunshine he had seen and lost. 

Far better in thy weeping hours 
To part from thee, as I do now, 

When mist is o’er thy blooming bowers, 
Like sorrow’s veil on beauty’s brow. 

For, though unrivall’d still thy grace, 
Thou dost not look, as then, too blest, 
But thus in shadow, seem’st a place 
Where erring man might hope to rest— 

Might hope to rest, and find in thee 
A gloom like Eden’s, on the day 
He left its shade, when every tree, 

Like thine, hung weeping o’er his way. 

Weeping or smiling, lovely isle ! 

And all the lovelier for thy tears— 

For tho’ but rare thy sunny smile, 

’Tis heaven’s own glance when it ap¬ 
pears. 

Like feeling hearts, whose joys are few, 
But, when indeed they come, divine— 
The brightest life the sun e’er threw 
Is lifeless to one gleam of thine ! 

Thomas Moore. 

The Meeting of the Waters: 

There is not in the wide world a valley 
so sweet 

As that vale, in whose bosom the bright 
waters meet; 






536 


FIRESIDE ENCYCLOPAEDIA OF POETRY. 


Oh, the last rays of feeling and life must 
depart 

Ere the bloom of that valley shall fade 
from my heart! 

Yet it was not that Nature had shed o’er 
the scene 

Her purest of crystal and brightest of 
green; 

’Twas not the soft magic of streamlet or 
hill- 

Oh, no ! it was something more exquisite 
still. 

’Twas that friends, the beloved of my 
bosom, were near, 

Who made every dear scene of enchant¬ 
ment more dear, 

And who felt how the best charms of 
Nature improve 

When we see them reflected from looks 
that we love. 

Sweet Vale of Avoca! how calm could I 
rest 

In thy bosom of shade, with the friends I 
love best: 

Where the storms that we feel in this cold 
world should cease, 

And our hearts, like thy waters, be min¬ 
gled in peace. 

Thomas Moore. 

Castell Gloom. 

O Caste u. Gloom ! thy strength is gone, 
The green grass o’er thee growin’; 

On hill of Care thou art alone, 

The Sorrow round thee flowin’. 

O Castell Gloom ! on thy fair wa’s 
Nae banners now are streamin’, 

The houlet flits amang thy ha’s, 

And wild birds there are screamin’. 

O, mourn the woe, O mourn the crime, 
Frae civil war that flows; 

0, mourn, Argyll, thy fallen line, 

And mourn the great Montrose. 

Here ladies bright were aften seen, 

Here valiant warriors trod ; 

And here great Knox has aften been, 

Wha feared naught but his God ! 

But a’ are gane! the glide, the great, 

And naething now remains, 


But ruin sittin’ on thy wa’s, 

And crumblin’ down the stanes, 

O, mourn the woe, etc. 

Thy lofty Ochils bright did glow, 

Though sleepin’ was the sun ; 

But mornin’s light did sadly show, 

What ragin’ flames had done. 

0, mirk, mirk was the misty cloud, 

That hung o’er thy wild wood ! 

Thou wert like beauty in a shroud, 

And all was solitude. 

O, mourn the woe, O, mourn the crime, 
Frae civil war that flows; 

O, mourn, Argyll, thy fallen line, 

And mourn the great Montrose. 

Carolina, Baroness Nairne. 

Written at Killarney, 

JULY 29, 1800. 

How soft the pause! the notes melodious 
cease, 

Which from each feeling could an echo 
call; 

Rest on your oars; that not a sound may 
fall 

To interrupt the stillness of our peace: 

The fanning west-wind breathes upon our 
cheeks 

Yet glowing with the sun’s departed beams. 

Through the blue heavens the cloudless 
moon pours streams 

Of pure resplendent light, in silver streaks 
| Reflected on the still, unruffled lake. 

The Alpine hills in solemn silence frown, 

I While the dark woods night’s deepest 
shades embrown, 

! And now once more that soothing strain 
awake! 

\ Oh, ever to my heart, with magic power, 

Shall those sweet sounds recall this rap¬ 
turous hour! 

Mary Tiohe. 

HYMN. 

Before Sunrise in the Vale of 
Chamouni. 

Hast thou a charm to stay the morning-star 

In his steep course ? So long he seems to 
I pause 





POEMS OF PLACES. 


587 


On thy bald awful head, 0 sovran Blanc! 
The Arve and Arveiron at thy base 
Rave ceaselessly; but thou, most awful 
Form, 

Risest from forth thy silent sea of pines, 
How silently ! Around thee and above, 
Deep is the air and dark; substantial, 
black, 

An ebon mass : methinks thou piercest it, 
As with a wedge! But, when I look 
again, 

It is thine own calm home, thy crystal 
shrine, 

Thy habitation from eternity ! 

O dread and silent Mount! I gazed upon 
thee, 

Till thou, still present to the bodily sense, 
Didst vanish from my thought: entranced 
in prayer, 

I worshipp’d the Invisible alone. 

Yet, like some sweet beguiling melody, 

So sweet, we know not we are listening to 

it, 

Thou, the meanwhile, wast blending with 
my thought, 

- Yea, with my life, and life’s own secret 

joy: 

Till the dilating Soul, enwrapt, trans¬ 
fused, 

Into the mighty vision passing—there, 

As in her natural form, swell’d vast to 
Heaven! 

Awake, my soul! Not only passive praise 
Thou owest! not alone these swelling 
tears, 

Mute thanks, and secret ecstasy! Awake, 
Voice of sweet song! Awake, my Heart, 
awake, 

Green vales and icy cliffs, all join mv 
Hymn. 

Thou, first and chief, sole sovran of the 
Vale! 

Oh struggling with the darkness all the 
night, 

And visited all night by troops of stars, 

Or when they climb the sky, or when they 
sink: 

Companion of the morning-star at dawn, 
Thyself Earth’s rosy star, and of the 
dawn 


Co-herald: wake! oh wake! and utter 
praise! 

Who sank thy sunless pillars deep in 
Earth ? 

Who fill’d thy countenance with rosy 
light ? 

Who made thee parent of perpetual 
streams ? 

And you, ye five wild torrents fiercely glad! 

Who call’d you forth from night and utter 
death, 

From dark and icy caverns call’d you 
forth, 

Down those precipitous, black, jagged 
Rocks, 

For ever shatter’d, and the same for ever? 

Who gave you your invulnerable life, 

Your strength, your speed, your fury, and 
your joy, 

Unceasing thunder, and eternal foam? 

And who commanded (and the silence 
came), 

Here let the billows stiffen, and have rest? 

Ye ice-falls! ye that from the mountain’s 
brow 

Adown enormous ravines slope amain—■ 

Torrents, methinks, that heard a mighty 
voice, 

And stopp’d at once amid their maddest 
plunge! 

Motionless torrents! silent cataracts! 

Who made you glorious as the gates of 
Heaven 

Beneath the keen full moon ? Who bade 
the sun 

Clothe you with rainbows? Who with 
living flowers 

Of loveliest blue spread garlands at your 
feet? 

God! let the torrents, like a shout of 
nations, 

Answer: and let the ice-plains echo, God! 

God! sing, ye meadow-streams, with glad¬ 
some voice! 

Ye pine groves, with your soft and soul¬ 
like sounds! 

And they, too, have a voice, yon piles of 
snow, 

And in their perilous fall shall thunder, 
God! 







538 


FIRESIDE ENCYCLOPAEDIA OF POETRY. 


Ye living flowers that skirt the eternal 
frost! 

Ye wild goats sporting round the eagle’s 
nest! 

Ye eagles, playmates of the mountain- 
storm ! 

Ye lightnings, the dread arrows of the 
clouds! 

Ye signs and wonders of the element! 

Utter forth God! and fill the hills with 
praise! 

Thou, too, hoar Mount! with thy sky¬ 
pointing peaks, 

Oft from whose feet the avalanche, un¬ 
heard, 

Shoots downward, glittering through the 
pure serene 

Into the depth of clouds, that veil thy 
breast— 

Thou, too, again, stupendous Mountain! 
thou 

That as I raise my head, a while bow’d 
low 

In adoration, upward from thy base 

Slow travelling with dim eyes suffused with 
tears, 

Solemnly seemest, like a vapory cloud, 

To rise before me—Rise, oh ever rise, 

Rise like a cloud of incense, from the 
Earth! 

Thou kingly Spirit throned among the 
hills, 

Thou dread ambassador from Earth to 
Heaven, 

Great hierarch! tell thou the silent sky, 

And tell the stars, and tell yon rising sun, 

Earth with her thousand voices praises 
God. 

Samuel Tayloe Coleridge. 


Indian Names. 

Ye say they all have pass’d away, 

That noble race and brave, 

That their light canoes have vanish’d 
From off the crested wave; 

That, ’mid the forests where they roam’d, 
There rings no hunter’s shout; 

But their name is on your waters, 

Ye may not wash it out. 


’Tis where Ontario’s billow 
Like ocean’s surge is curl’d ; 

Where strong Niagara’s thunders wake 
The echo of the world ; 

Where red Missouri bringeth 
Rich tribute from the West, 

! And Rappahannock sweetly sleeps 
On green Virginia’s breast. 

j Ye say their conelike cabins, 

That cluster’d o’er the vale, 

Have fled away like wither’d leaves 
Before the autumn’s gale: 

But their memory liveth on your hills, 
Their baptism on your shore; 

Your everlasting rivers speak 
Their dialect of yore. 

Old Massachusetts wears it 
Within her lordly crown, 

And broad Ohio bears it 
’Mid all her young renown ; 

Connecticut hath wreathed it 
Where her quiet foliage waves, 
j And bold Kentucky breathes it hoarse 
Through all her ancient caves. 

Wachuset hides its lingering voice 
Within his rocky heart, 

And Alleghany graves its tone 
Throughout his lofty chart; 
i Monadnock on his forehead hoar 
Doth seal the sacred trust: 

Your mountains build their monument, 
Though ye destroy their dust. 

Lydia Huntley Sigourney. 

Niagara. 

The thoughts are strange that crowd into 
my brain 

While I look upward to thee! It would 
seem 

As if God pour’d thee from his hollow hand, 
And hung his bow upon thine awful front, 
And spoke in that loud voice which seem’d 
to him 

Who dwelt in Patmos for his Saviour’s sake 
“ The sound of many waters,” and had bade 
| Thy flood to chronicle the ages back, 

And notch His centuries in the eternal 
rocks. 


I 










POEMS OF PLACES. 


539 


Deep calletk unto deep—and what are we 

That hear the question of that voice sub¬ 
lime? 

Oh, what are all the notes that ever rung 

From war’s vain trumpet by thy thundering 
side? 

Yea, what is all the riot man can make, 

In his short life, to thine unceasing roar? 

And yet, bold babbler, what art thou to 
Him 

Who drown’d the world and heap’d the 
waters far 

Above its loftiest mountains?—A light 
wave, 

That breaks and whispers of his Maker’s 
might! 

John G. C. Brainard. 


To Seneca Lake. 

Ox thy fair bosom, silver lake, 

The wild swan spreads his snowy sail, 

And round his breast the ripples break, 

As down he bears before the gale. 

On thy fair bosom, waveless stream, 

The dipping paddle echoes far, 

And flashes in the moonlight gleam, 

And bright reflects the polar star. 

The waves along thy pebbly shore, 

As blows the north wind, heave their 
foam 

And curl around the dashing oar, 

As late the boatman hies him home. 

How sweet, at set of sun, to view 
Thy golden mirror spreading wide, 

And see the mist of mantling blue 

Float round the distant mountain’s side. 

At midnight hour, as shines the moon, 

A sheet of silver spreads below, 

And swift she cuts, at highest noon, 

Light clouds, like wreaths of purest snow. 

On thy fair bosom, silver lake, 

Oh I could ever sweep the oar,— 

When early birds at morning wake, 

And evening tells us toil is o’er. 

James Gates Peecival. 


The Arsenal at Springfield. 

This is the Arsenal. From floor to ceil¬ 
ing, 

Like a huge organ, rise the burnish’d 
arms, 

But from their silent pipes no anthem 
pealing 

Startles the villages with strange alarms. 

Ah! what a sound will rise—how wild 
and dreary— 

When the death-angel touches those 
swift keys! 

What loud lament and dismal Miserere 

Will mingle with their awful sympho¬ 
nies ! 

I hear even now the infinite fierce chorus, 

The cries of agony, the endless groan, 

Which, through the ages that have gone 
before us, 

In long reverberations reach our own. 

On helm and harness rings the Saxon 
hammer, 

Through Cimbric forest roars the Norse¬ 
man’s song, 

And loud, amid the universal clamor, 

O’er distant deserts sounds the Tartar 
gong. 

I hear the Florentine, who from his pal¬ 
ace 

Wheels out his battle-bell with dreadful 
din, 

l And Aztec priests upon their teocallis 
l Beat the wild war-drums made of ser¬ 
pent’s skin; 

The tumult of each sack’d and burning 
village, 

The shout that every prayer for mercy 
drowns, 

The soldiers’ revels in the midst of pillage, 

The wail of famine in beleaguer’d towns; 

The bursting shell, the gateway wrench’d 
asunder, 

The rattling musketry, the clashing 
blade, 

| And ever and anon, in tone of thunder, 

! The diapason of the cannonade. 

Is it, O man, with such discordant noises, 
i With such accursed instruments as these, 








540 


FIRESIDE ENCYCLOPAEDIA OF POETRY. 


Thou drownest Nature’s sweet and kindly 
voices, 

And jarrest the celestial harmonies? 

Were half the power that fills the world 
with terror, 

Were half the wealth bestow’d on camps 
and courts, 

Given to redeem the human mind from 
error, 

There were no need of arsenals or 
forts: 

The warrior’s name would be a name ab¬ 
horred, 

And every nation that should lift again 

Its hand against a brother, on its forehead 

Would wear for evermore the curse of 
Cain! 

Down the dark future, through long gene¬ 
rations, 

The echoing sounds grow fainter and 
then cease; 

And like a bell, with solemn, sweet vibra¬ 
tions, 

I hear once more the voice of Christ 
say, “ Peace!” 

Peace!—and no longer from its brazen 
portals 

The blast of War’s great organ shakes 
the skies, 

But, beautiful as songs of the immortals, 

The holy melodies of love arise. 

Henry Wadsworth Longfellow. 


Old St. David’s at Radnor. 

What an image of peace and rest 
Is this little church among its graves! 
All is so quiet; the troubled breast, 

The wounded spirit, the heart oppressed, 
Here may find the repose it craves. 

See, how the ivy climbs and expands 
Over this humble hermitage, 

And seems to caress with its little hands 
The rough, gray stones, as a child that 
stands 

Caressing the wrinkled cheeks of age! 


You cross the threshold; and dim and 
small 

Is the space that serves for the Shep¬ 
herd’s Fold; 

The narrow aisle, the bare, white wall, 

The pews, and the pulpit quaint and tall, 
Whisper and say: “Alas! we are old.” 

Herbert’s chapel at Bemerton 
Hardly more spacious is than this; 

But Poet and Pastor, blent in one, 

Clothed with a splendor, as of the sun, 
That lowly and holy edifice. 

It is not the wall of stone without 
That makes the building small or great, 
But the soul’s light shining round about, 
And the faith that overcometh doubt, 

And the love that stronger is than hate. 

Were I a pilgrim in search of peace, 

Were I a pastor of Holy Church, 

More than a bishop’s diocese 
Should I prize this place of rest, and re¬ 
lease 

From farther longing and farther search. 

Here would I stay, and let the world 
With its distant thunder roar and roll; 
Storms do not rend the sail that is furled; 
Nor like a dead leaf, tossed and whirled 
In an eddy of wind, is the anchored souk 
Henry Wadsworth Longfellow. 

Lines, 

Composed a few Miles above Tintern 
Abbey, ox Revisiting the Banks of 
the Wye. 

Five years have past; five summers, with 
the length 

Of five long winters! and again I hear 
These waters, rolling from their mountain- 
springs 

With a sweet inland murmur.—Once again 
Do I behold these steep and lofty cliffs, 
That on a wild secluded scene impress 
Thoughts of more deep seclusion ; and con¬ 
nect 

The landscape with the quiet of the sky. 
The day is come when I again repose 
Here, under this dark sycamore, and view 
These plots of cottage-ground, these or- 
chard-tufts 










POEMS OF PLACES. 


541 


Which at this season, with their unripe 
fruits, 

Are clad in one green hue, and lose them¬ 
selves 

Among the woods and copses, nor disturb 
The wild green landscape. Once again I 
see 

These hedge-rows, hardly hedge-rows, little 
lines 

Of sportive wood run wild: these pastoral 
farms, 

Green to the very door; and wreaths of 
smoke 

Sent up, in silence, from among the trees 
With some uncertain notice, as might 
seem 

Of vagrant Dwellers in the houseless 
woods, 

Or of some Hermit’s cave, where by his fire 
The Hermit sits alone. 

These beauteous Forms, 
Through a long absence, have not been to 
me 

As is a landscape to a blind man’s eye: 

But oft, in lonely rooms, and ’mid the din 
Of towns and cities, I have owed to them, 
In hours of weariness, sensations sweet, 
Felt in the blood, and felt along the heart; 
And passing even into my purer mind, 
With tranquil restoration :—feelings too 
Of unremembered pleasure: such, perhaps, 
As have no slight or trivial influence 
On that best portion of a good man’s life, • 
His little, nameless, unremembered acts 
Of kindness and of love. Nor less, I 
trust, 

To them I may have owed another gift, 

Of aspect more sublime; that blessed 
mood, 

In which the burthen of the mystery, 

In which the heavy and the weary weight, 
Of all this unintelligible world, 

Is lightened:—that serene and blessed 
mood, 

In which the affections gently lead us on,— 
Until the breath of this corporeal frame 
And even the motion of our human blood 
Almost suspended, we are laid asleep 
In body, and become a living soul: 

While with an eye made quiet by the 
power 


Of harmony, and the deep power of joy, 
We see into the life of things. 

If this 

Be but a vain belief, yet, oh ! how oft, 

In darkness, and amid the many shapes 
Of joyous daylight; when the fretful stir 
Unprofitable, and the fever of the world, 
Have hung upon the beatings of my heart, 
How oft, in spirit, have I turned to thee, 

O sylvan Wye! Thou wanderer thro’ the 
woods, 

How often has my spirit turned to thee! 

And now, with gleams of half-extin- 
- guished thought, 

I With many recognitions dim and faint, 

, And somewhat of a sad perplexity, 

The picture of the mind revives again : 
Where here I stand, not only with the sense 
Of present pleasure, but with pleasing 
thoughts 

That in this moment there is life and food 
For future years. And so I dare to hope, 
Though changed, no doubt, from what I 
was when first 

I came among these hills; when like a roe 
I bounded o’er the mountains, by the sides 
Of the deej) rivers, and the lonely streams, 
Wherever nature led: more like a man 
Flying from something that he dreads, 
than one 

Who sought the thing he loved. For 
nature then 

(The coarser pleasures of my boyish days, 
And their glad animal movements all 
gone by) 

j To me was all in all.—-I cannot paint 
What then I was. The sounding cataract 
Haunted me like a passion : the tall rock, 
The mountain, and the deep and gloomy 
wood, 

Their colors and their forms, were then 
to me 

An appetite; a feeling and a love, 

That had no need of a remoter charm, 

By thought supplied, or any interest 
Unborrowed from the eye.—That time is 
past, 

And all its aching joys are now no more, 
And all its dizzy raptures. Not for this 
Faint I, nor mourn nor murmur; other 
gifts 










542 


FIRESIDE ENCYCLOPEDIA OF POETRY. 


Have followed, for such loss, T would 
believe, 

Abundant recompense. For I have learned 
To look on nature, not as in the hour 
Of thoughtless youth; but hearing often¬ 
times 

The still, sad music of humanity, 

Nor harsh nor grating, though of ample 
power 

To chasten and subdue. And I have felt 
A presence that disturbs me with the joy 
Of elevated thoughts; a sense sublime 
Of something far more deeply interfused 
Whose dwelling is the light of setting 
suns, 

And the round ocean and the living air, 
And the blue sky, and in the mind of man : 
A motion and a spirit, that impels 
All thinking things, all objects of all 
thought, 

And rolls through all things. Therefore 
am I still 

A lover of the meadows and the woods, 
And mountains; and of all that we behold 
From this green earth; of all the mighty 
world 

Of eye and ear, both what they half 
create, 

And what perceive; well pleased to recog¬ 
nize 

In nature and the language of the sense, 
The anchor of my purest thoughts, the 
nurse, 

The guide, the guardian of my heart, and 
soul 

Of all my moral being. 

Nor perchance, 

If I were not thus taught, should I Ihe 
more 

Suffer my genial spirits to decay: 

For thou art with me, here, upon the banks 
Of this fair river; thou, my dearest Friend, 
My dear, dear Friend, and in thy voice I 
catch 

The language of my former heart, and read 
My former pleasures in the shooting lights 
Of thy wild eyes. Oh ! yet a little while 
May I behold in thee what I was once, 

My dear, dear Sister! and this prayer I 
make, 

Knowing that Nature never did betray 


The heart that loved her; ’tis her privi¬ 
lege, 

Through all the years of this our life, to 
lead 

From joy to joy: for she can so inform 
The mind that is within us, so impress 
With quietness and beauty, and so feed 
With lofty thoughts, that neither evil 
tongues, 

Rash judgments, nor the sneers of selfish 
men, 

Nor greetings where no kindness is, nor all 
The dreary intercourse of daily life, 

Shall e’er prevail against us, or disturb 
Our cheerful faith, that all which we be¬ 
hold 

Is full of blessings. Therefore let the 
moon 

Shine on thee in thy solitary walk; 

And let the misty mountain winds be free 
To blow against thee : and, in after years, 
When these wild ecstasies shall be matured 
Into a sober pleasure, when thy mind 
Shall be a mansion for all lovely forms, 
Thy memory be as a dwelling place 
For all sweet sounds and harmonies; oh! 
then, 

If solitude, or fear, or pain, or grief, 
Should be thy portion, with what healing 
thoughts 

Of tender joy wilt thou remember me, 

And these my exhortations! Nor, per¬ 
chance, 

If I should be where I no more can hear 
Thy voice, nor catch from thy wild eyes 
these gleams 

Of past existence, wilt thou then forget 
That on the banks of this delightful stream 
We stood together; and that I, so long 
A 'worshipper of Nature, hither came 
Unwearied in that service: rather say 
With warmer love, oh! with far deeper 
zeal 

Of holier love. Nor wilt thou then forget, 
That after many wanderings, many years 
Of absence, these steep woods and lofty 
cliffs, 

And this green pastoral landscape, were to 
me 

More dear, both for themselves and for thy 
sake! 

William Wordsworth. 






“Psalms and Hymns and Spiritual Songs.” 


Eph. v. 19. 


Wa tchman, Tell us of tlie Nlght. 

Watchman, tell us of the night— 
What its signs of promise are ! 

Traveller, o’er, yon mountain’s height 
See that glory-beaming star ! 

Watchman, does its beauteous ray 
Aught of hope or joy foretell ? 

Traveller, yes ; it brings the day— 
Promised day of Israel. 

Watchman, tell us of the night— 
Higher yet that star ascends ! 

Traveller, blessedness and light, 

Peace and truth, its course portends. 

Watchman, will its beams alone 
Gild the spot that gave them birth ? 

Traveller, ages are its own— 

See, it bursts o’er all the earth ! 

Watchman, tell'us of the night, 

For the morning seems to dawn. 

Traveller, darkness takes its flight— 
Doubt and terror are withdrawn. 

Watchman, let thy wandering cease ; 
Hie thee to thy quiet home. 

Traveller, lo ! the Prince of Peace— 

Lo ! the Son of God, is come. 

Sir John Bowring. 

On the Morning of Chrises 
Nativity. 

i. 

This is the month, and this the happy 
morn, 

Wherein the Son of heav’n’s eternal King, 

Of wedded Maid, and Virgin Mother born, 

Our great redemption from above did 
bring; 

For so the holy sages once did sing. 


| That He our deadly forfeit should release, 
And with His Father work us a perpetual 
peace. 

n. 

That glorious form, that light unsufferable, 
And that far-beaming blaze of majesty, 
Wherewith He wont at heav’n’s high coun¬ 
cil-table 

To sit the midst of Trinal Unity, 

He laid aside ; and here wdth us to be, 
Forsook the courts of everlasting day, 

And chose with us a darksome house of 
mortal clay. 

ill. 

Say, heav’nly Muse, shall not thy sacred 
vein 

Afford a present to the Infant God ? 

Hast thou no verse, no hymn, or solemn 
strain, 

To welcome Him to this His new abode, 
Now while the heav’n, by the sun’s team 
untrod, 

Hath took no print of the approaching 
light, 

And all the spangled host keep w r atch in 
squadrons bright ? 

IV. 

See how from far upon the eastern road 
The star-led wizards haste with odors 
sweet: 

Oh run, prevent them with thy humble ode, 
And lay it lowly at His blessed feet; 

Have thou the honor first thy Lord to 
greet, 

And join thy voice unto the Angel quire, 
From out His secret altar touch’d with hal¬ 
low’d fire. 


543 




544 


FIRESIDE ENCYCLOPAEDIA OF POETRY. 


THE HYMN. 

I. 

It was the winter wild, 

While the heav’n-born Child 
All meanly wrapt in the rude manger 
lies; 

Nature in awe to Him 
Had doft't her gaudy trim, 

With her great Master so to sympathize : 
It was no season then for her 
To wanton with the sun, her lusty para¬ 
mour. 

ii. 

Only with speeches fair 
She woos the gentle air 
To hide her guilty front with innocent 
snow, 

And on her naked shame, 

Pollute with sinful blame, 

The saintly veil of maiden white to 
throw ; 

Confounded that her Maker’s eyes 
Should look so near upon her foul de¬ 
formities. 

in. 

But He her fears to cease, 

Sent down the meek-eyed Peace ; 

She, crown’d with olive green, came 
softly sliding 

Down through the turning sphere 
His ready harbinger, 

With turtle wing the amorous clouds 
dividing; 

And waving wide her myrtle wand, 

She strikes a universal peace through sea 
and land. 


v. 

But peaceful was the night, 

Wherein the Prince of Light 

His reign of peace upon the earth be¬ 
gan : 

The winds with wonder whist 
Smoothly the waters kist, 

Whisp’ring new joys to the mild ocean, 
Who now hath quite forgot to rave, 

While birds of calm sit brooding on the. 
charmfed wave. 


YI. 

The stars with deep amaze 
Stand fix’d in steadfast gaze, 

Bending one way their precious influ¬ 
ence, 

And will not take their flight, 

For all the morning light, 

Or Lucifer that often warn’d them 
thence; 

But in their glimmering orbs did glow, 
Until their Lord Himself bespake, and bid 
them go. 

VII. 

And though the shady gloom 
Had given day her room, 

The sun himself withheld his wonted 
speed, 

And hid his head for shame, 

As his inferior flame 

The new enlighten’d world no more 
should need; 

He saw a greater Sun appear 
Than his bright throne, or burning axle- 
tree could bear. 


IV. 

No war or battle’s sound 
Was heard the world around : 

The idle spear and shield were high up 
hung, 

The hooked chariot stood 
Unstain’d with hostile blood, 

The trumpet spake not to the armed 
throng, 

And kings sat still with awful eye, 

As if they surely knew their sov’reign Lord 
was by. 


VIII. 

The shepherds on the lawn, 

Or e’er the point of dawn, 

Sat simply chatting in a rustic row; 

Full little thought they then 
| That the mighty Pan 

Was kindly come to live with them be¬ 
low ; 

Perhaps their loves, or else their sheep, 
Was all that did their silly thoughts so 
busy keep. 










PSALMS AND HYMNS AN1) SPIRITUAL SONGS.’ 


545 


IX. 

When, such music sweet 
Their hearts and ears did greet, 

As never was by mortal finger strook, 
Divinely-warbled voice 
Answering the stringed noise, 

As all their souls in blissful rapture 
took; 

The air such pleasure loath to lose, 

With thousand echoes still prolongs each 
heavenly close. 

x. 

Nature that heard such sound, 

Beneath the hollow round 
Of Cynthia’s seat, the airy region thrill¬ 
ing, 

Now was almost won 
To think her part was done, 

And that her reign had here its last 
fulfilling; 

She knew such harmony alone 
Could hold all heav’n and earth in happier 
union. 

XI. 

At last surrounds their sight 
A globe of circular light, 

That with long beams the shamefaced 
night array’d; 

The helmed Cherubim, 

And sworded Seraphim, 

Are seen in glittering ranks with wings 
display’d, 

Harping in loud and solemn quire, 

With unexpressive notes to Heaven’s new¬ 
born Heir. 

XII. 

Such music (as ’tis said) 

Before was never made, 

But when of old the sons of morning 
sung, 

While the Creator great 
His constellations set, 

And the well-balanced world on hinges 
hung; 

And cast the dark foundations deep, 

And bid the welt’ring waves their oozy 
channel keep. 

35 


XIII. 

Ring out, ye crystal spheres, 

Once bless our human ears, 

If ye have pow’r to touch our senses 
so; 

And let your silver chime 
Move in melodious time, 

And let the base of heav’n’s deep or¬ 
gan blow ; 

And with your ninefold harmony 
Make up full consort to th’ angelic sym¬ 
phony. 

XIV. 

For if such holy song 
Inwrap our fancy long, 

Time will run back, and fetch the age 
of gold; 

And speckled Vanity 
Will sicken soon and die, 

And leprous Sin will melt from earthly 
mould; 

And Hell itself will pass away, 

And leave her dolorous mansions to the 
peering day. 

xv. 

Yea Truth and Justice then 
- Will down return to men, 

Orb’d in a rainbow; and, like glories 
wearing, 

Mercy will sit between, 

Throned in celestial sheen, 

With radiant feet the tissued clouds 
down steering: 

And heav’n, as at some festival, 

Will open wide the gates of her high 
palace hall. 

XVI. 

But wisest Fate says, no, 

This must not yet be so, 

The Babe lies yet in smiling infancy, 
That on the bitter cross 
Must redeem our loss; 

So both Himself and us to glorify; 

Yet first to those ychain’d in sleep, 

The wakeful trump of doom must thunder 
through the deep, 










FIRESIDE ENCYCLOPAEDIA OF POETRY. 


G46 


XVII. 

With such a horrid clang 
As on Mount Sinai rang, 

While the red fire, and smouldering 
clouds out brake: 

The aged earth aghast, 

With terror of that blast, 

Shall from the surface to the centre 
shake; 

When at the world’s last session, 

The dreadful Judge in middle air shall 
spread His throne. 

XVIII. 

And then at last our bliss 
Full and perfect is, 

But now begins; for from this happy 
day 

The old Dragon under ground 
In straiter limits bound, 

Not half so far casts his usurped sway, 
And wroth to see his kingdom fail, 
Swinges the scaly horror of his folded tail. 

XIX. 

The oracles are dumb, 

No voice or hideous hum 
Runs thro’ the arched roof in words 
deceiving. 

Apollo from his shrine 
Can no more divine, 

With hollow shriek the steep of Delphos 
leaving. 

No nightly trance, or breathed spell 
Inspires the pale-eyed priest from the pro¬ 
phetic cell. 

xx. 

The lonely mountains o’er, 

And the resounding shore, 

A voice of weeping heard and loud la¬ 
ment ; 

From haunted spring, and dale 
Edged with poplar pale, 

The parting genius is with sighing 
sent; 

With flow’ r-inwoven tresses torn 
The Nymphs in twilight shade of tangled 
thickets mourn. 


XXI. 

In consecrated earth, 

And on the holy hearth, 

The Lars, and Lemures moan with mid¬ 
night plaint; 

In urns, and altars round, 

A drear and dying sound 
Affrights the Flamens at their service 
quaint: 

And the chill marble seems to sweat, 
While each peculiar Pow’r foregoes his 
wonted seat. 

XXII. 

Peor and Baalim 
Forsake their temples dim, 

With that twice-batter’d god of Pales¬ 
tine ; 

And moonfed Ashtaroth, 

Heav’n’s queen and mother both, 

Now sits not girt with tapers’ holy 
shine; 

The Lybic Hammon shrinks his horn, 

In vain the Tyrian maids their wounded 
Thammuz mourn. 

XXIII. 

And sullen Moloch fled, 

Hath left in shadows dread 

His burning idol all of blackest hue ; 

In vain with cymbals’ ring 
They call the grisly king, 

In dismal dance about the furnace 
blue: 

The brutish gods of Nile as fast, 

Isis and Orus, and the dog Anubis haste. 

XXIV. 

Nor is Osiris seen 
In Memphian grove or green, 

Trampling the unshow’r’d grass with 
lowings loud: 

Nor can he be at rest 
Within his sacred chest; 

Naught but profoundest hell can be his 
shroud: 

In vain with timbrell’d anthems dark 
The sable-stolfed sorcerers bear his wor- 
shipp’d ark. 






PSALMS AN1) HYMNS AN1) SPIRITUAL SONGS.” 


517 


XXV. 

He feels from Juda’s land 
The dreaded Infant’s hand, 

The rays of Bethlehem blind his dusky 
eyn: 

Nor all the gods beside, 

Longer dare abide, 

Not Typhon huge ending in snaky twine : 
Our Babe, to show His Godhead true, 

Can in His swaddling bands control the 
damnfed crew. 

XXVI. 

So when the sun in bed, 

Curtain’d with cloudy red, 

Pillows his chin upon an orient wave, 
The flocking shadows pale 
Troop to th’ infernal jail, 

Each fetter’d ghost slips to his several 
grave; 

And the yellow-skirted Fayes 
Fly after the night-steeds, leaving their 
moon-loved maze. 

XXVII. 

But see the Virgin blest 
Hath laid her Babe to rest, 

Time is our tedious song should here 
have ending; 

Heav’n’s youngest teemed star 
Hath fix’d her polish’d car, 

Her sleeping Lord Avith handmaid lamp 
attending; 

And all about the courtly stable 
Bright-harness’d Angels sit in order ser¬ 
viceable. 

John Milton. 

Messiah. 

A Sacred Eclogue. 

Ye nymphs^of Solyma! begin the song : 
To heavenly themes sublimer strains be¬ 
long. 

The mossy fountains and the sylvan 
shades, 

The dreams of Pindus and th’ Aonian 
maids. 

Delight no more—O Thou my voice in¬ 
spire 

Who touch’d Isaiah’s hallow’d lips with fire! 


Rapt into future times the bard begun : 

A Virgin shall conceive—a Virgin bear a 
Son! 

From Jesse’s root behold a Branch arise 

Whose sacred flower with fragrance fills 
the skies: 

Th’ Ethereal Spirit o’er its leaves shall 

move. 

And on its top descends the mystic Dove. 

Ye heavens! from high the dewy nectar 
pour, 

And in soft silence shed the kindly 
shower! 

The sick and weak the healing plant shall 
aid—- 

From storms a shelter, and from heat a 
shade. 

All crimes shall cease, and ancient fraud 
shall fail; 

Returning Justice lift aloft her scale, 

Peace o’er the world her olive wand ex¬ 
tend, 

And white-rohed Innocence from heaven 
descend. 

Swift fly the years, and rise th’ expected 
morn! 

Oh spring to light, auspicious Babe, be 
born! 

See, Nature hastes her earliest wreaths to 
bring, 

With all the incense of the breathing 
spring: 

See lofty Lebanon his head advance; 

See nodding forests on the mountains 
dance; 

See spicy clouds from lowly Sharon rise, 

And Carmel’s flowery top perfumes the 
skies! 

Hark! a glad voice the lonely desert 
cheers: 

Prepare the way! a God, a God appears! 

A God, a God! the vocal hills reply— 

The rocks proclaim the approaching 
Deity. 

Lo, earth receives Him from the bending 
skies! 

Sink down, ye mountains; and ye valleys, 
rise! 

With heads declined, ye cedars, homage 
pay! 

Be smooth, ye rocks; ye rapid floods, give 
way! 









FIRESIDE ENCYCLOPEDIA OF POETRY. 


r>-i8 


The Saviour comes! by ancient bards fore¬ 
told— 

Hear Him, ye deaf; and all ye blind, be¬ 
hold l 

He from thick films shall purge the visual 
ray, 

And on the sightless eyeball pour the 
day: 

’Tis He th’ obstructed paths of sound shall 
clear, 

And bid new music charm th’ unfolding 
ear; 

The dumb shall sing; the lame his crutch 
forego, 

And leap exulting like the bounding roe. 

No sigh, no murmur, the wide world shall 
hear— 

From every face He wipes off every tear. 

In adamantine claims shall Death be 
bound, 

And Hell’s grim tyrant feel the eternal 
wound. 

As the good shepherd tends his fleecy 
care, 

Seeks freshest pasture, and the purest air, 

Explores the lost, the wandering sheep di¬ 
rects, 

By day o’ersees them, and by night pro¬ 
tects ; 

The tender lambs he raises in his arms— 

Feeds from his hand, and in his bosom 
warms: 

Thus shall mankind His guardian care en¬ 
gage— 

The promised Father of the future age. 

No more shall nation against nation rise, 

Nor ardent warriors meet with hateful 
eyes; 

Nor fields with gleaming steel be cover’d 
o’er, 

The brazen trumpets kindle rage no 
more; 

But useless lances into scythes shall bend, 

And the broad falchion in a ploughshare 
end. 

Then palaces shall rise; the joyful son 

Shall finish what his short-lived sire be¬ 
gun; 

Their vines a shadow to their race shall 
yield, 

And the same hand that sow’d shall reap 
the field. 


The swain in barren deserts with surprise 
Sees lilies spring and sudden verdure rise; 
And starts, amidst the thirsty wilds, to 
hear 

New falls of water murmuring in his ear. 
On rifted rocks, the dragon’s late abodes, 
The green reed trembles, and the bulrush 
nods; 

Waste sandy valleys, once perplex’d with 
thorn, 

The spiry fir and shapely box adorn; 

To leafless shrubs the flow’ring palms suc¬ 
ceed, 

And od’rous myrtle to the noisome weed ; 
The lambs with wolves shall graze the ver¬ 
dant mead, 

And boys in flowery bands the tiger lead; 
The steer and lion at one crib shall meet, 
And harmless serpents lick the pilgrim’s 
feet. 

The smiling infant in his hand shall take 
The crested basilisk and speckled snake— 
Pleased, the green lustre of the scales 
survey, 

And with their forky tongue shall inno¬ 
cently play. 

Rise, crown’d with light, imperial Salem, 
rise! 

Exalt thy tow’rv head, and lift thy eyes! 
See a long race thy spacious courts adorn; 
See future sons and daughters, yet un¬ 
born, 

In crowding ranks on every side arise, 
Demanding life, impatient for the skies! 
See barb’rous nations at thy gates attend, 
Walk in thy light, and in thv temple 
bend; 

See thy bright altars throng’d with pros¬ 
trate kings, 

And heap’d with products of Sabsean 
springs! 

For thee Idume’s spicy forests blow, 

And seeds of gold in Ophir’s mountains 
glow. 

See Heaven its sparkling portals wide dis¬ 
play, 

And break upon thee in a flood of day! 

No more the rising Sun shall gild the 
morn, 

Nor ev’ning Cynthia fill her silver horn ; 
But lost, dissolved in thy superior rays, 
One tide of glory, one unclouded blaze, 







“ Once again 

Do I behold these steep and lofty cliffs. 

That on a wild secluded scene impress 
Thoughts of more deep seclusion .”—Page 54c 









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PSALMS AND HYMNS AND SPIRITUAL SONGS: 


54b 


O’erflow thy courts; the Light Himself 
shall shine 

Reveal’d, and God’s eternal day be thine! 

The seas shall waste, the skies in smoke 
decay, 

Rocks fall to dust, and mountains melt 
away; 

But fix’d His word, His saving power re¬ 
mains ; 

Thy realm for ever lasts, thy own Messiah 
reigns! 

Alexander Pope. 

A Christmas Hymn. 

It was the calm and silent night! 

Seven hundred years and fifty-three 

Had Rome been growing up to might, 

And now was queen of land and sea. 

No sound was heard of clashing wars— 
Peace brooded o’er the hush’d domain : 

Apollo, Pallas, Jove, and Mars 

Held undisturb’d their ancient reign, 

In the solemn midnight, 
Centuries ago. 

’Twas in the calm and silent night! 

The senator of haughty Rome, 

Impatient, urged his chariot’s flight, 

From lordly revel rolling home ; 

Triumphal arches, gleaming, swell 

His breast with thoughts of boundless 
sway; 

What reck’d the Roman what befell 
A paltry province far away, 

In the solemn midnight, 

Centuries ago ? 

Within that province far away 
Went plodding home a weary boor ; 

A streak of light before him lay, 

Fallen through a half-shut stable-door 

Vcross his path. He pass’d—for naught 
Told what was going on within ; 

How keen the stars, his only thought— 
The air how calm, and cold, and thin, 

In the solemn midnight, 

Centuries ago! 

0 strange indifference ! low and high 
Drowsed over common joys and cares ; 

The earth was still—but knew not why 
The world was listening, unawares. 


I How calm a moment may precede 

One that shall thrill the world for ever ! 
To that still moment, none would heed, 
Man’s doom was link’d no more to 
sever— 

In the solemn midnight, 
Centuries ago! 

It is the calm and solemn night! 

A thousand bells ring out, and throw 
Their joyous peals abroad, and smite 
The darkness—charm’d and holy now ! 
The night that erst no name had worn, 

To it a happy name is given ; 

For in that stable lay, new-born, 

The peaceful Prince of earth and heaven, 
In the solemn midnight, 

Centuries ago! 

Alfred Domett. 

Christmas. 

While shepherds watch’d their flocks by 
night, 

All seated on the ground, 

The angel of the Lord came down, 

And glory shone around. 

“Fear not,” said he (for mighty dread 
Had seized their troubled mind); 

“Glad tidings of great joy I bring 
To you and all mankind. 

| “ To you, in David’s town, this day 
Is born of David’s line 
The Saviour who is Christ the Lord; 

And this shall be the sign: 

“ The heavenly Babe you there shall find 
To human view display’d, 

All meanly wrapt in swathing bands, 

And in a manger laid.” 

Thus spake the Seraph ; and forthwith 
Appear’d a shining throng 
Of angels, praising God, and thus 
Address’d their joyful song : 

“ All glory be to God on high, 

And to the earth be peace ; 

Good-will henceforth from heaven to men 
Begin, and never cease !” 

Nahum Tate. 












550 


FIRESIDE ENCYCLOPEDIA OF POETRY. 


Christmas Carol. 

Caiiol, carol, Christians, 

Carol joyfully; 

Carol for the coming 
Of Christ’s Nativity; 

And pray a gladsome Christmas 
For all good Christian men. 

Carol, carol, Christians, 

For Christmas come again. 

Carol, carol. 

Go ye to the forest, 

Where the myrtles grow ; 

Where the pine and laurel 
Bend beneath the snow. 

Gather them for Jesus; 

Wreath them for His shrine ; 

Make His temple glorious 
With the box and pine. 

Carol, carol. 

Wreath your Christmas garlaud 
Where to Christ we pray; 

It shall smell like Carmel 
On our festal day; 

Libanus and Sharon 
Shall not greener be 

Than our holy chancel 
On Christ’s Nativity. 

Carol, carol. 

Carol, carol, Christians! 

Like the Magi, iioav 

Ye must lade your caskets 
With a grateful vow : 

Ye must have sweet incense, 
Myrrh, and finest gold, 

At our Christmas altar 
Humbly to unfold. 

Carol, carol. 

Blow, blow up the trumpet 
For our solemn feast; 

Gird thine armor, Christian, 
Wear thy surplice, priest! 

Go ye to the altar, 

Pray—with fervor pray— 

For Jesus’ second coming, 

And the Latter Day. 

Carol, carol. 

Give us grace, 0 Saviour, 

To put off in might 

Deeds and dreams of darkness, 
For the robes of light! 


And to live as lowly 
As Thyself with men ; 

So to rise in glory 
When Thon com’st again. 

Carol, carol. 

Arthur Cleveland C'oxe. 


Come, ye Lofty. 

Come, ye lofty, come, ye lowly, 

Let your songs of gladness ring ; 

In a stable lies the Holy, 

In a manger rests the King. 

See, in Mary’s arms reposing, 

Christ by highest heaven adored ; 

Come, your circle round Him closing, 
Pious hearts that love the Lord. 

Come, ye poor; no pomp of station 
Robes the Child your hearts adore, 

He, the Lord of all salvation, 

Shares your want, is weak and poor , 

Oxen, round about behold them ; 

Rafters naked, cold and hare ; 

1 See the shepherds; God has told them 
That the Prince of Life lies there. 

Come, ye children, blithe and merry, 

This one Child your model make; 
j Christmas-holly, leaf and berry, 
i All be prized for IDs dear sake : 

! Come, ye gentle hearts and tender, 

Come, ye spirits keen and bold; 

1 All in all your homage render, 

Weak and mighty, young and old. 

High above a star is shining, 

And the wise men haste from far ; 

Come, glad hearts, and spirits pining— 
For you all has risen the star. 

Let us bring our poor oblations, 

Thanks and love, and faith and praise ; 

Come, ye people, come, ye nations ; 

All in all draw nigh to gaze. 

Hark, the Heaven of Heavens is ringing : 
Christ the Lord to man is born ! 

I Are not all our hearts, too, singing, 
Welcome, welcome, Christmas morn ? 

; Still the Child all power possessing 
Smiles as through the ages past, 

And the song of Christmas blessing 
Sweetly sinks to rest at last. 

Archer Gurney. 







“PSALMS AND HYMNS AND SPIRITUAL SONGS: 


651 


Christmas Carol. 

Christians, awake, salute the happy morn 
Whereon the Saviour of the world was born; 
Rise to adore the mystery of love 
Which hosts of angels chanted from 
■ above! 

With them the joyful tidings first begun 
Of God incarnate and the Virgin’s Son. 
Then to the watchful shepherds it was told, 
Who heard the angelic herald’s voice: 

“ Behold, 

1 bring good tidings of a Saviour’s birth 
To you and all the nations upon earth : 

This day hath God fulfill’d his promised 
word, 

This day is born a Saviour, Christ the Lord. 
In David’s city, shepherds, ye shall find 
The long-foretold Redeemer of mankind. 
Wrapt up in swaddling-clothes, the babe 
divine 

Lies in a manger: this shall be your sign.” 
He spake; and straightway the celestial 
choir 

In hymns of joy, unknown before, conspire: 
The praises of redeeming love they sung, 
And heaven’s whole orb with alleluias 
rung: 

God’s highest glory was their anthem still, 
Peace upon earth, and mutual good-will. 

To Bethlehem straight the enlightened 
shepherds ran, 

To see the wonder God had wrought for man : 
And found, with Joseph and the blessed 
maid, 

Her Son, the Saviour, in a manger laid; 
Amazed the wondrous story they proclaim, 
The first apostles of his infant fame. 

While Mary keeps and ponders in her heart 
The heavenly vision which the swains im¬ 
part, 

They to their flocks, still praising God, 
return, 

And their glad hearts within their bosoms 
burn. 

Let us, like these good shepherds, then 
employ 

Our grateful voices to proclaim the joy; 
Like Mary, let us ponder in our mind 
God’s wondrous love in saving lost man¬ 
kind ; 

Artless and watchful, as these favored 
swains, 

While virgin meekness in the heart re¬ 
mains. i 


Trace we the Babe,who has retrieved our loss, 
From His poor manger to His bitter cross; 
Treading His steps, assisted by His grace, 
Till man’s first heavenly state again takes 
place. 

Then may we hope, the angelic thrones 
among, 

To sing, redeem’d, a glad triumphal song; 
He that was born upon this joyful day 
Around us all His glory shall display; 
Saved by His love, incessant we shall sing 
Of angels and of angel-men the King. 

John Bykosi. 

Christmas Carol. 

God rest you, merry gentlemen, 

Let nothing you dismay, 

For Jesus Christ our Saviour 
Was born upon this day, 

To save us all from Satan’s power, 
When we were gone astray. 

Oh tidings of comfort and joy, 

For Jesus Christ, our Saviour, was 
born on Christmas Day ! 

In Bethlehem, in Jewry, 

This blessed babe was born, 

And laid within a manger, 

Upon this blessed morn ; 

The which his mother Mary 
Nothing did take in scorn. 

Oh tidings of comfort and joy, 
For Jesus Christ, our Saviour, was 
born on Christmas Day ! 

From God, our Heavenly Father, 

A blessed angel came, 

And unto certain shepherds 
Brought tidings of the same, 

How that in Bethlehem was born 
The Son of God by name. 

Oh tidings of comfort and joy, 
For Jesus Christ, our Saviour, was 
born on Christmas Day! 

Fear not, then said the angel, 

Let nothing you affright, 

This day is born a Saviour, 

Of virtue, power, and might, 

So frequently to vanquish all 
The friends of Satan quite. 

Oh tidings of comfort and joy, 
For Jesus Christ, our Saviour, was 
born on Christmas Day! 

The shepherds at those tidings 
Rejoiced much in mind, 











552 


FIRESIDE ENCYCLOPEDIA OF POETRY. 


And left their flocks a-feeding 
In tempest, storm, and wind, 

And went to Bethlehem straightway 
This blessed babe to find. 

Oh tidings of comfort and joy, 
For Jesus Christ, our Saviour, was 
born on Christmas Day ! 

But when to Bethlehem they came, 
Whereat this infant lay, 

They found him in a manger 
Where oxen feed on hay ; 

His mother Mary, kneeling, 

Unto the Lord did pray. 

Oh tidings of comfort and joy, 
For Jesus Christ, our Saviour, was 
born on Christmas Day ! 

Now to the Lord sing praises, 

All you within this place, 

And with true love and brotherhood 
Each other now embrace ; 

This holy tide of Christmas 
All others doth deface. 

Oh tidings of comfort and joy, 
For Jesus Christ, our Saviour, was 
born on Christmas Day! 

Author Unknown. 


It came upon the Midnight 
Clear. 

It came upon the midnight clear, 

That glorious song of old, 

From angels bending near the earth 
To touch their harps of gold : 

“ Peace on the earth, good-will to men 
From Heaven’s all-gracious King:” 

The world in solemn stillness lay 
To hear the angels sing. 

Still through the cloven skies they come 
With peaceful wings unfurl’d; 

And still their heavenly music floats 
O’er all the weary world : 

A.bove its sad and lowly plains 
They bend on hovering wing, 

And ever o’er its Babel sounds 
The blessed angels sing. 

But with the woes of siu and strife 
The world has suffer’d long; 


Beneath the angel-strain have roll’d 
Two thousand years of wrong; 

And man, at war with man, hears not 
The love-song which they bring : 

Oh! hush the noise, ye men of strife. 
And hear the angels sing ! 

And ye, beneath life’s crushing load 
Whose forms are bending low, 

Who toil along the climbing way 
With painful steps and slow, 

Look now ! for glad and golden hours 
Come swiftly on the wing: 

Oh! rest beside the weary road, 

And hear the angels sing! 

For lo! the days are hastening on, 

By prophet-bards foretold, 

When with the ever-circling years 
Comes round the age of gold ; 

When peace shall over all the earth 
Its ancient splendors fling, 

And the whole world send back the song 
Which now the angels sing! 

Edmund H. Sears 

Hark: how all the Welkin 

RINGS! 

Hark ! how all the welkin rings ! 
Glory to the King of kings! 

Peace on earth, and mercy mild, 

God and sinners reconciled! 

Joyful, all ye nations, rise, 

Join the triumph of the skies; 
Universal Nature say, 

Christ the Lord is born to-day! 

Christ, by highest Heaven adored; 
Christ, the Everlasting Lord ; 

Late in time behold Him come, 
Offspring of a Virgin’s womb: 

Veil’d in flesh the Godhead see; 

Hail the Incarnate Deity, 

Pleased as man with men to appear, 

Jesus, our Immanuel here! 

Hail! the heavenly Prince of Peace! 
Hail! the Sun of Righteousness ! 
Light and life to all He brings, 

Risen with healing in His wings. 

Mild He lays His glory by, 

Born that man no more may die, 

Born to raise the sons of earth, 

Born to give them second birth. 









553 


“PSALMS AND HYMNS AND SPIRITUAL SUNGS.” 


Come, Desire of nations, come, 

Fix in us Thy humble home ! 

Rise, the woman’s conquering Seed, 
Bruise in us the Serpent’s head ! 

Now display Thy saving power, 

Ruin’d nature now restore, 

Now in mystic union join 
Thine to ours, and ours to Thine! 

Adam’s likeness, Lord, efface; 

Stamp Thy image in its place; 

Second Adam from above, 

Reinstate us in Thy love! 

Let us Thee, though lost, regain, 

Thee, the Life, the Inner Man : 

Oh, to all Thyself impart, 

Form’d in each believing heart! 

Charles Wesley. 

Shout the Glad Tidings. 

Shout the glad tidings, exultingly sing; 
Jerusalem triumphs, Messiah is King! 

Sion, the marvellous story be telling, 

The Son of the Highest, how lowly His 
birth! 

The brightest archangel in glory excelling, 
He stoops to redeem thee, He reigns 
upon earth: 

Shout the glad tidings, exultingly sing; 
Jerusalem triumphs, Messiah is King ! 

Tell how He cometh; from nation to na¬ 
tion, 

The heart-cheering news let the earth 
echo round: 

How free to the faithful He offers salvation, 
How His people with joy everlasting are 
crown’d : 

Shout the glad tidings, exultingly sing; 
Jerusalem triumphs, Messiah is King! 

Mortals, your homage be gratefully bring¬ 
ing, 

And sweet let the gladsome Hosanna 
arise; 

Ye angels, the full Hallelujah be singing; 
One chorus resound through the earth 
and the skies: 

Shout the glad tidings, exultingly 
sing; 

Jerusalem triumphs, Messiah is King ! 
William Augustus Muhlenberg. 


A Christmas Carol. 

God rest ye, merry gentlemen; let nothing 
you dismay, 

For Jesus Christ, our Saviour, was born 
on Christmas-day. 

The dawn rose red o’er Bethlehem, the 
stars shone through the gray, 

When Jesus Christ, our Saviour, was born 
on Christmas-day. 

God rest ye, little children; let nothing 
you affright, 

For Jesus Christ, your Saviour, was born 
this happy night; 

Along the hills of Galilee the white flocks 
sleeping lay, 

When Christ, the Child of Nazareth, was 
born on Christmas-day. 

God rest ye, all good Christians; upon 
this blessed morn 

The Lord of all good Christians was of a 
woman born: 

Now all your sorrows He doth heal, your 
sins He takes away ; 

For Jesus Christ, our Saviour, was born 
on Christmas-day. 

Dinah Maria Muloch Craik. 

Hark, the Glad Sound. 

Hakk, the glad sound! the Saviour comes, 
The Saviour promised long; 

Let every heart prepare a throne, 

And every voice a song! 

On him the Spirit, largely pour’d, 

Exerts his sacred fire; 

Wisdom and might, and zeal and love. 

His holy breast inspire. 

He comes, the prisoners to release 
In Satan’s bondage held; 

The gates of brass before Him burst. 

The iron fetters yield. 

He comes, from thickest films of vice 
To clear the mental ray, 

And on the eyeballs of the blind 
To pour celestial day. 

He comes, the broken heart to bind, 

The bleeding soul to cure, 

And with the treasures of His grace 
To enrich the humble poor. 









3.34 


FIRESIDE ENCYCLOPEDIA OF POETRY. 


Gethsemane. 


His silver trumpets publish loud 
The jubilee of the Lord; 

Our debts are all remitted now, 

Our heritage restored. 

Our glad Hosannas, Prince of Peace, 
Thy welcome shall proclaim, 

And heaven’s eternal arches ring 
With thy belovfed name. 

Philip Doddridge. 


Epiphany. 

Brightest and best of the sons of the 
morning, 

Dawn on our darkness, and lend us Thine 
aid! 

Star of the East, the horizon adorning, 
Guide where our infant Redeemer is 
laid! 

Cold on His cradle the dewdrops are shin¬ 
ing ; 

Low lies His head with the beasts of the 
stall; 

Angels adore Him in slumber reclining— 
Maker, and Monarch, and Saviour of all. 

Say, shall we yield Him, in costly de¬ 
votion, 

Odors of Edom, and offerings divine— 

Gems of the mountain, and pearls of the 
ocean ? 

Myrrh from the forest, or gold from 
the mine ? 

Vainly we offer each ample oblation, 
Vainly with gifts would His favor se¬ 
cure ; 

Richer by far is the heart’s adoration, 
Dearer to God are the prayers of the 
poor. 

Brightest and best of the sons of the 
morning, 

Dawn on our darkness, and lend us Thine 
aid! 

Star of the East, the horizon adorning, 
Guide where our infant Redeemer is 
laid! 


Go to dark Gethsemane, 

Ye that feel the tempter’s power; 
Your Redeemer’s conflict see, 

Watch with Him one bitter hour; 
Turn not from His griefs away, 

Learn of Jesus Christ to pray! 

Follow to the judgment-hall— 

View the Lord of life arraign’d; 

Oh, the wormwood and the gall, 

Oh, the pangs his soul sustain’d ! 
Shun not suffering, shame, or loss—• 
Learn of Him to bear the cross ! 

Calvary’s mournful mountain climb; 

There, adoring at His feet, 

Mark that miracle of time— 

God’s own sacrifice complete! 

“ It is finish’d!”—hear the cry; 

Learn of Jesus Christ to die. 

Early hasten to the tomb 
Where they laid his breathless clay: 
All is solitude and gloom ; 

Who hath taken Him away? 

Christ is risen ! He meets our eyes ! 
Saviour, teach us so to rise! 

James Montgomery. 


Christ Crucified. 

“And was crucified for us under Pontius Pilate; 
He suffered, and was buried.” 

Ride on, ride on in majesty! 

Hark ! all the tribes Hosanna cry ! 

Thine humble beast pursues his road. 
With palms and scatter’d garments strow’d 

Ride on ! ride on in majesty 1 
In lowly pomp ride on to die! 

O Christ! Thy triumphs now begin 
O’er captive Death and conquer’d Sin. 

Ride on ! ride on in majesty! 

The winged squadrons of the sky 
Look down with sad and wondering eyes 
To see the approaching Sacrifice. 

Ride on ! ride on in majesty! 

Thy last and fiercest strife is nigh ; 

The Father on His sapphire throne 
Expects His own anointed Son. 


Reginald Heber. 







<J PSALMS AND HYMNS AND SPIRITUAL SONGS.” 


555 


Ride on ! ride on in majesty ! 
in lowly pomp ride on to die! 

Bow Thy meek head to mortal pain; 

Then take, 0 God, Thy power, and reign! 

Henry Hart Milman. 


Bound upon tip Accursed Tree. 

Bound upon th’ accursed tree, 

Faint and bleeding, who is He? 

By the eyes so pale and dim, 

Streaming blood, and writhing limb, 

By the flesh, with scourges torn, 

By the crown of twisted thorn, 

By the side, so deeply pierced, 

By the baffled burning thirst, 

By the drooping death-dew’d brow, 

Son of Man! ’tis Thou, ’tis Thou ! 

Bound upon th’ accursed tree, 

Dread and awful, who is He? 

By the sun at noonday pale, 

Shivering rocks, and rending veil, 

By earth, that trembles at His doom, 

By yonder saints, who burst their tomb, 
By Eden, promised ere He died 
To the felon at His side, 

Lord, our suppliant knees we bow ; 

Son of God! ’tis Thou ! ’tis Thou! 

Bound upon th’ accursed tree, 

Sad and dying, who is He? 

By the last and bitter cry, 

The ghost given up in agony. 

By the lifeless body laid 
In the chamber of the dead, 

By the mourners, come to weep 
Where the bones of Jesus sleep; 
Crucified! we know Thee now ; 

Son of Man ! ’tis Thou! ’tis Thou ! 

Bound upon tli’ accursed tree, . 

Dread and awful, who is He ? 

By the prayer for them that slew, 

“ Lord, they know not what they do !” 

By the spoil’d and empty grave, 

By the souls He died to save, 

By the conquest He hath won, 

By the saints before His throne, 

By the rainbow round His brow, 

Son of God ! ’tis Thou ! ’tis Thou ! 

Henry Hart Milman. j 


Bells Across the Snow. 

O Christmas, merry Christmas! 

Is it really come again, 

With its memories and greetings. 

With its joy and with its pain? 
There’s a minor in the carol, 

And a shadow in the light, 

And a spray of cypress twining 
With the holly wreath to-night. 
And the hush is never broken 
By laughter light and low, 

As we listen in the starlight 
To the “ bells across the snow.” 

O Christmas, merry Christmas! 

’Tis not so very long 
Since other voices blended 
With the carol and the song! 

If we could but hear them singing 
As they are singing now, 

If we could but see the radiance 
Of the crown on each dear brow ; 
There would be no sigh to smother, 
No hidden tear to flow, 

As we listen in the starlight 
To the “bells across the snow.” 

O Christmas, merry Christmas ! 

This never more can be ; 

We cannot bring again the days 
Of our unshadowed glee. 

But Christmas, happy Christmas, 
Sweet herald of good-will, 

With holy songs of glory 
Brings holy gladness still. 

For peace and hope may brighten, 
And patient love may glow, 

As we listen in the starlight 
To the “ bells across the snow.” 

Frances Ridley IIaversal. 

The Lord is Risen. 

“ Christ the Lord is risen to-day,” 

Sons of men and angels say: 

Raise your joys and triumphs high, 
Sing, ye heavens, and earth reply. 

Love’s redeeming work is done, 

Fought the fight, the battle won : 

Lo! our Sun’s eclipse is o’er; 

Lo! He sets in blood no more. 









556 


FIRESIDE ENCYCLOPAEDIA OF POETRY. 


Vain the stone, the watch, the seal; 
Christ has burst the gates of hell! 
Death in vain forbids His rise; 

Christ has open’d Paradise! 

Lives again our glorious King: 

Where, O Death, is now thy sting? 
Dying once, He all doth save; 

Where thy victory, O Grave ? 

Soar we now where Christ has led, 
Following our exalted Head ; 

Made like Him, like Him we rise; 

Ours the cross, the grave, the skies. 

What though once we perish’d all, 
Partners in our parents’ fall ? 

Second life we all receive, 

In our Heavenly Adam live. 

Risen with Him, we upward move; 
Still we seek the things above; 

Still pursue, and kiss the Son 
Seated on His Father’s Throne. 

Scarce on earth a thought bestow, 

Dead to all we leave below; 

Heaven our aim, and loved abode, 

Hid our life with Christ in God: 

Hid, till Christ our Life appear 
Glorious in His members here; 

Join’d to Him, we then shall shine, 

All immortal, all divine. 

Hail the Lord of Earth and Heaven! 
Praise to Thee by both be given ! 

Thee we greet triumphant now ! 

Hail, the Resurrection Thou! 

King of glory, Soul of bliss! 
Everlasting life is this, 

Thee to know, Thy power to prove, 
Thus to sing, and thus to love! 

Charles Wesley. 

Christ Risen. 

■•And the third day He rose again, according to the 
Scriptures.” 

Again the Lord of Life and Light 
Awakes the kindling ray, 

Unseals the eyelids of the morn, 

And pours increasing day. 

Oh what a night was that which wrapt 
The heathen world in gloom ! 


Oh what a sun, which broke this day 
Triumphant from the tomb ! 

I This day be grateful homage paid, 

And loud hosannas sung; 

Let gladness dwell in every heart, 

And praise on every tongue. 

Ten thousand differing lips shall join 
To hail this welcome morn, 

Which scatters blessings from its wings 
To nations yet unborn. 

j Jesus, the friend of human kind, 

With strong compassion moved, 

Descended like a pitying God 
To save the souls he loved. 

The powers of darkness leagued in vain 
To bind His soul in death; 

He shook their kingdom, when He fell, 
With His expiring breath. 

Not long the toils of hell could keep 
The hope of Judah’s line; 

Corruption never could take hold 
Of aught so much divine. 

And now His conquering chariot-wheels 
Ascend the lofty skies ; 

While broke beneath His powerful cross 
Death’s iron sceptre lies. 

Exalted high at God’s right hand. 

The Lord of all below, 

Through Him is pardoning love dispensed, 
And boundless blessings flow. 

And still for erring, guilty man 
A Brother’s pity flows ; 

And still His bleeding heart is touch’d 
With memory of our woes. 

To Thee, my Saviour and my King, 

Glad homage let me give ; 

And stand prepared like Thee to die, 
With-Thee that I may live ! 

Anna L.>etitia Barbauld. 

Coronation. 

“All hail the power of Jesus’ name! 

Let angels prostrate fall; 

Bring forth the royal diadem, 

To crown Him Lord of all! 











Stitch! stitch! stitch! 

In poverty, hunger, and dirt.”— Page 7//. 


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A HIGHLAND BAGPIPER 

The bag-pipe, or pibroch, is the national musical instrument of Scotland and all 
the Scottish poets sing their love of its weird strains. 













“ PSALMS AND HYMNS AND SPIRITUAL SONGS. 




“ Let high-born seraphs tune the lyre, 
And, as they tune it, fall 
Before His face who tunes their choir, 
And crown Him Lord of all! 

“ Crown Him, ye morning stars of light 
Who fix’d this floating ball; 

Now hail the Strength of Israel’s might, 
And crown Him Lord of all! 

“ Crown Him, ye martyrs of your God, 
Who from His altar call ; 

Extol the stem of Jesse’s rod, 

And crown Him Lord of all! 

“ Ye seed of Israel’s chosen race, 

Ye ransom’d of the fall. 

Hail Him who saves you by His grace, ] 
And crown Him Lord of all! 

“ Hail Him, ve heirs of David’s line, 
Whom David Lord did call, 

The God incarnate, man divine; 

And crown Him Lord of all! 

“ Sinners, whose love can ne’er forget 
The wormwood and the gall, 

Go spread your trophies at His feet, 

And crown Him Lord of all! 

“ Let every tribe and every tongue 
That bound creation’s call, 

Now shout, in universal song, 

The crowned Lord of all !” 

Edward Perronet. 

Psalm lxxil 

Hail to the Lord’s Anointed, 

Great David’s greater Son ! 

Hail, in the time appointed, 

His reign on earth begun ! 

He comes to break oppression, 

To let the captive free, 

To take aw r ay transgression, 

And rule in equity. 

He comes with succor speedy 
To those who suffer wrong ; 

To help the poor and needy, 

And bid the weak be strong : 

To give them songs for sighing, 

Their darkness turn to light, 

Whose souls, condemn’d and dying, 
Were precious in His sight. 


By such shall He be feared 
While sun and moon endure. 
Beloved, obeyed, revered; 

For He shall judge the poor, 
Through changing generations 
With justice, mercy, truth, 

While stars maintain their stations, 
Or moons renew their youth. 

He shall come down like showers 
Upon the fruitful earth, 

And love, joy, hope, like flowers, 
Spring in His path to birth; 

Before Him, on the mountains, 

Shall Peace, the herald, go, 

And righteousness, in fountains. 
From hill to valley flow. 

Arabia’s desert-ranger 
To Him shall bow the knee; 

The Ethiopian stranger 
His glory come to see: 

With offerings of devotion 
Ships from the isles shall meet, 

To pour the wealth of ocean 
In tribute at His feet. 

Kings shall fall down before Him, 
And golden incense bring; 

All nations shall adore Him, 

His praise all people sing; 

For He shall have dominion 
O’er river, sea, and shore; 

Far as the eagle’s pinion, 

Or dove’s light wing, can soar. 

For Him shall prayer unceasing, 

And daily vows ascend, 

His kingdom still increasing, 

A kingdom without end: 

The mountain-dews shall nourish 
A seed, in weakness sown, 

Whose fruit shall spread and flourish, 
And shake like Lebanon. 

O’er every foe victorious 
He on His throne shall rest 
From age to age more glorious, 

All blessing and all-blest: 

The tide of time shall never 
His covenant remove; 

His Name shall stand for ever, 

That Name to us is Love. 

James Montgomery. 







FIRESTI)E ENCYCLOPAEDIA OF POETS V. 


“>•38 


PER PACEM AD LUC EM. 

T no not ask, O Lord, that life may be 
A pleasant road; 

1 do not ask that Thou wouldst take from me i 
Aught of its load; 

I do not ask that flowers should always spring 
Beneath my feet; 

I know too well the poison and the sting 
Of things too sweet. 

For one thing only, Lord, dear Lord, I plead, 
Lead me aright— 

Though strength should falter, and though 
heart should bleed— 

Through Peace to Light. 

I do not ask, O Lord, that Thou shouldst 
shed 

Full radiance here; 

Give hut a ray of peace, that I may tread 
Without a fear. 

I do not ask my cross to understand, 

My way to see; 

Better in darkness just to feel Thy hand 
And follow Thee. 

.Toy is like restless day; hut peace divine 
Like quiet night: 

Lead me, O Lord,—till perfect Day shall 
shine, 

Through Peace to Light. 

Adelaide Anne Procter. 

Hail, Thou Once-despised Jesus / 

Hair, Thou once-despis&d Jesus ! 

Hail, thou Galilean King ! 

Thou didst suffer to release us, 

Thou didst free salvation bring: 

Hail, thou agonizing Saviour, 

Bearer of our sin and shame ; 

By Thy merits we find favor ; 

Life is given through Thy Name! 

Paschal Lamb, by God appointed, 

All our sins were on Thee laid ; 

By Almighty Love anointed, 

Thou hast full atonement made : 

All Thy people are forgiven 
Through the virtue of Thy Blood ; 
Open’d is the gate of heaven ; 

Peace is made ’twixt man and God. 


Jesus, hail! enthroned in glory, 

There for ever to abide ; 

All the heavenly hosts adore Thee, 
Seated at Thy Father’s side. 

There for sinners Thou art pleading ; 

There Thou dost our place prepare ; 
Ever for us interceding 
Till in glory we appear. 

Worship, honor, power, and blessing, 
Thou art worthy to receive ; 

Loudest praises, without ceasing, 

Meet it is for us to give ! 

Help, ye bright angelic spirits, 

Bring your sweetest, noblest lays; 
Help to sing our Saviour’s merits, 

Help to chant Immanuel’s praise! 

John Kakewkll. 

My Faith looks up to Thee. 

My faith looks up to Thee, 

Thou Lamb of Calvary, 

Saviour divine! 

Now hear me while I pray: 

Take all my guilt away; 

Oh let me from this day 
Be wholly Thine! 

May Thy rich grace impart 
Strength to my fainting heart, 

My zeal inspire! 

As Thou hast died for me, 

Oh may my love to Thee 
Pure, warm, and changeless be, 

A living fire! 

While life’s dark maze I tread, 
And griefs around me spread, 

Be Thou my Guide! 

Bid darkness turn to day, 

Wipe sorrow’s tears away, 

Nor let me ever stray 
From Thee aside. 

When ends life’s transient dream, 
When death’s cold sullen stream 
Shall o’er me roll, 

Blest Saviour! then in love 
Fear and distrust remove; 

Oh hear me safe above, 

A ransom’d soul! 

Ray Palmer 







PSALMS AND HYMNS AND SPIRITUAL SOX HSU 


559 


Litany. 

Saviour, when in dust to Thee 
Low we bend th’ adoring knee; 

When repentant to the skies 
Scarce we lift our streaming eyes; 

Oh ! by all Thy pains and woe 
Suffer’d once for man below, 

Bending from Thy throne on high, 
Hear our solemn Litany ! 

By Thy helpless infant years, 

By Thy life of want and tears, 

By Thy days of sore distress 
In the savage wilderness; 

By the dread mysterious hour 
Of the insulting tempter’s power; 
Turn, oh ! turn a favoring eye, 

Hear our solemn Litany! 

By the sacred griefs that wept 
O’er the grave where Lazarus slept; 
By the boding tears that flow’d 
Over Salem’s loved abode; 

By the anguish’d sigh that told 
Treachery lurk’d within Thy fold: 
From Thy seat above the sky, 

Hear our solemn Litany ! 

By Thine hour of dire despair; 

By Thine agony of prayer; 

By the cross, the nail, the thorn, 
Piercing spear, and torturing scorn ; 
By the gloom that veil’d the skies 
O’er the dreadful sacrifice; 

Listen to our humble cry, 

Hear our solemn Litany ! 

By Thy deep expiring groan ; 

By the sad sepulchral stone; 

By the vault, whose dark abode 
Held in vain the rising God ; 

Oh ! from earth to heaven restored, 
Mighty reascended Lord, 

Listen, listen to the cry 
Of our solemn Litany ! 

Sir Robert Grant. 

o Thou, the Contrite Sinners’ 
Friend. 

*1 Thou, the contrite sinners’ friend, 
Who, loving, lov’st them to the end, 


On this alone my hopes depend, 

Thai Thou wilt plead for me! 

When, weary in the Christian race, 

Far off appears my resting-place, 

And fainting I mistrust Thy grace, 
Then, Saviour, plead for me! 

When I have err’d and gone astray 
Afar from Thine and Wisdom’s way, 
And see no glimmering guiding ray, 
Still, Saviour, plead for me ! 

When Satan, bv my sins made bold, 
Strives from Thy cross to loose my hold, 
Then with Thy pitying arms enfold, 

And plead, oh plead for me ! 

And when my dying hour draws near, 
Darken’d with anguish, guilt, and fear, 
Then to my fainting sight appear, 
Pleading in Heaven for me ! 

When the full light of heavenly day 
Reveals my sins in dread array, 

Say Thou hast wash’d them all away ; 
Oh say Thou plead’st for me ! 

Charlotte Elliott. 

Jesus, I my Cross ha ye Taken. 

Jesus, 1 my cross have taken, 

All to leave, and follow Thee; 

Destitute, despised, forsaken, 

Thou, from hence, my all shalt be: 
Perish every fond ambition, 

All I’ve sought, or hoped, or known ; 
Yet how rich is my condition ! 
i God and Heaven are still my own ! 

I 

i Let the world despise and leave me, 

They have left my Saviour too ; 

Human hearts and looks deceive me ; 

Thou art not, like them, untrue : 

And, while Thou shalt smile upon me, 
God of wisdom, love, and might, 

Foes may hate, and friends may shun me; 
Show Thy face, and all is bright! 

Go, then, earthly fame and treasure 1 
Come, disaster, scorn, and pain 1 
In Thy service, pain is pleasure, 
i With Thy favor, loss is gain I 










560 


FIRESIDE ENCYCLOPAEDIA OF POETRY. 


I have call’d Thee, Abba, Father ! 

I have stay’d my heart on Thee ! 

Storms may howl, and fclouds may gather, 
All must work for good to me. 

Man may trouble and distress me, 

’Twill but drive me to Thy breast; 

Life with trials hard may press me, 
Heaven will bring me sweeter rest! 

Oh, ’tis not in grief to harm me, 

While Thy love is left to me ! 

Oh, ’twere not in joy to charm me, 

Were that joy unmix’d with Thee ! 

Take, my soul, thy full salvation ; 

Rise o’er sin, and fear, and care ; 

Joy to find, in every station, 

Something still to do or bear : 

Think what Spirit dwells within thee! 

What a Father’s smile is thine ! 

What a Saviour died to win thee ! 

Child of Heaven, shouldst thou repine? 

Haste, then, on from grace to glory, 

Arm’d by faith, and wing’d by prayer ; 
Heaven’s eternal day’s before thee, 

God’s own hand shall guide thee there ! 
Boon shall close thy earthly mission, 

Swift shall pass thy pilgrim days ; 

Hope soon change to glad fruition, 

Faith to sight, and prayer to praise ! 

Henry Francis Lyte. 


Saviour, who Thy Flock art 
Feeding. 

Saviour, w r ho Thy flock art feeding 
With the Shepherd’s kindest care. 

All the feeble gently leading, 

While the lambs Thy bosom share ; 

Now, these little ones receiving, 

Fold them in Thy gracious arm ; 

There, we know, Thy word believing, 
Only there, secure from harm ! 

Never, from Thy pasture roving, 

Let them be the lion’s prey ; 

Let Thy tenderness so loving 
Keep them all life’s dangerous way : 

Then, within Thy fold eternal, 

Let them find a resting-place, 


Feed in pastures ever vernal, 

Drink the rivers of Thy grace ! 

William Augustus Muhlenberg. 

Rock of ages. 

Rock of Ages, cleft for me, 

Let me hide myself in Thee ! 

- Let the water and the blood, 

From Thy riven side which flowed, 

Be of sin the double cure, 

Cleanse me from its guilt and power. 

Not the labors of my hands 
Can fulfil Thy law’s demands ; 

Could my zeal no respite know, 

Could my tears for ever flow, 

All for sin could not atone ; 

Thou must save, and Thou alone. 

Nothing in my hand I bring; 

Simply to Thy Cross I cling; 

Naked, come to Thee for dress; 
Helpless, look to Thee for grace ; 

Foul, I to the Fountain fly; 

Wash me, Saviour, or I die ! 

While I draw this fleeting breath, 
When my eyestriugs break in death. 
When I soar through tracts unknown, 
See Thee on Thy judgment-throne ; 
Rock of Ages, cleft for me, 

Let me hide myself in Thee ! 

Augustus Montague Toplady. 

Jesu, Lover of my Soul. 

Jesu, lover of my soul, 

Let me to Thy bosom flv, 

While the nearer waters roll, 

While the tempest still is high ! 

Hide me, O my Saviour, hide, 

Till the storm of life is past, 

Safe into the haven guide ; 

Oh receive my soul at last! 

Other refuge have I none; 

Hangs my helpless soul on Thee j 
Leave, ah ! leave me not alone, 

Still support and comfort me ! 

All my trust on Thee is stay’d, 

All my help from Thee I bring: 
Cover my defenceless head 
With the shadow of Thy wing! 






“PSALMS AND HYMNS AND SPIRITUAL SONGS: 


561 


Wilt Thou not regard my call ? 

Wilt Thou not accept my prayer? 

Lo I I sink, I faint, I fall! 

Lo! on Thee I cast my care! 

Reach me out Thy gracious hand ! 

While I of Thy strength receive, 
Hoping against hope I stand, 

Dying, and behold I live! 

Thou, 0 Christ, art all I want; 

More than all in Thee I find: 

Raise the fallen, cheer the faint, 

Heal the sick, and lead the blind! 
Just and holy is Thy Name; 

I am all unrighteousness; 

False and full of sin I am, 

Thou art full of truth and grace. 

Plenteous grace with Thee is found— 
Grace to cover all my sin; 

Let the healing streams abound; 

Make and keep me pure within ! 

Thou of Life the Fountain art, 

Freely let me take of Thee; 

Spring Thou up within my heart! 

Rise to all eternity! 

Charles Wesley. 

How Sweet the Name of Jesus 
Sounds. 

How sweet the Name of Jesus sounds 
In a believer’s ear! 

It soothes his sorrows, heals his wounds, 
And drives away his fear! 

It makes the wounded spirit whole, 

And calms the troubled breast; 

’Tis manna to the hungry soul, 

And to the weary rest. 

Dear Name ! the rock on which I build, 
My shield and hiding-place, 

My never-failing treasury, fill’d 
With boundless stores of grace, 

By Thee my prayers acceptance gain, 
Although with sin defiled ; 

Satan accuses me in vain, 

And I am own’d a child. 

Jesus, my Shepherd, Husband, Friend, 
My Prophet, Priest, and King, 

My Lord, my Life, my Way, my End, 
Accept the praise I bring. 

36 


Weak is the effort of my heart, 

And cold my warmest thought; 

But when I see Thee as Thou art, 

I’ll praise Thee as I ought. 

Till then, I would Thy love proclaim 
With every fleeting breath ; 

And may the music of Thy Name 
Refresh my soul in death ! 

John Newton. 

LOVEST THOU MEf 

John xxi. 16 . 

Hark, my soul! it is the Lord, 

’Tis thy Saviour, hear His word ; 

Jesus speaks, and speaks to thee: 

“ Say, poor sinner, lov’st thou Me ? 

“ I deliver’d thee when bound, 

And, when bleeding, heal’d thy wound; 
Sought thee wandering, set thee right, 
Turn’d thy darkness into light. 

“ Can a woman’s tender care 
Cease toward the child she bare ? 

Yes, she may forgetful be ; 

Yet will I remember thee! 

“ Mine is an unchanging love, 

Higher than the heights above, 

Deeper than the depths beneath, 

Free and faithful, strong as death. 

“ Thou shalt see my glory soon, 

When the work of grace is done; 
Partner of my throne shalt be; 

Say, poor sinner, lov’st thou Me?” 

Lord ! it is my chief complaint, 

That my love is weak and faint; 

Yei I love Thee and adore! 

Oh ! for grace to love Thee more ! 

William Cowper. 

The Stranger and his Friend. 

A poor wayfaring man of grief 
Hath often cross’d me on my way, 
Who sued so humbly for relief, 

That I could never answer, Nay. 

I had not power to ask his name, 
Whither he went, or whence he came. 
Yet there was something in his eye 
That won my love, I knew not why. 






FIRESIDE ENCYCLOPAEDIA OF POETRY. 


>62 


Once, when my scanty meal was spread, 
He enter’d ; not a word he spake ; 

Just perishing for want of bread ; 

^ I gave him all; he bless’d it, brake, 

And ate; but gave me part again ; 

Mine was an angel’s portion then ; 

For, while I fed with eager haste, 

That crust was manna to my taste. 

I spied him, where a fountain burst 
Clear from the rock; his strength was 
gone; 

The heedless water mock’d his thirst, 

He heard it, saw it hurrying on : 

I ran to raise the sufferer up ; 

Thrice from the stream he drain’d my cup, 
Dipt, and return’d it running o’er; 

I drank, and never thirsted more. 

’Twas night; the floods were out; it 
blew 

A winter hurricane aloof; 

T heard his voice abroad, and flew 
To bid him welcome to my roof; 

I warm’d, I clothed, I cheer’d my guest, 
Laid him on my own couch to rest; 

Then made the hearth my bed, and seem’d 
In Eden’s garden while I dream’d. 

Stript, wounded, beaten, nigh to death, 

I found him by the highway-side: 

I roused his pulse, brought back his 
breath, 

Revived his spirit, and supplied 
Wine, oil, refreshment; he was heal’d: 

I had myself a wound conceal’d ; 

But from that hour forgot the smart, 

And peace bound up my broken heart. 

In prison I saw him next condemn’d 
To meet a traitor’s death at morn : 

The tide of lying tongues I stemm’d, 

And honor’d him ’midst shame and 
scorn ; 

My friendship’s utmost zeal to try, 

He ask’d if I for him would die; 

The flesh was weak, my blood ran chill; 
But the free spirit cried, “ I will.” 

Then in a moment to my view 

The Stranger darted from disguise; 

The tokens in His hands I knew, 

My Saviour stood before mine eyes! 


! He spake; and my poor name He named: 
“ Of Me thou hast not been ashamed; 
These deeds shall thy memorial be; 

Fear not; thou didst them unto Me.” 

James Montgomery. 


Come, Holy Spirit, Heavenly 
Dove. 

Come, Holy Spirit, heavenly Dove, 
With all Thy quickening powers, 
Kindle a flame of sacred love 
In these cold hearts of ours. 

Look how we grovel here below, 

Fond of these trifling toys; 

Our souls can neither fly nor go 
To reach eternal joys! 

In vain we tune our formal songs. 

In vain we strive to rise; 

Hosannas languish on our tongues, 

And our devotion dies. 

Dear Lord, and shall we ever lie 
At this poor dying rate ? 

Our love so faint, so cold to Thee, 

And Thine to us so great! 

Come, Holy Spirit, heavenly Dove, 
With all Thy quickening powers; 
Come, shed abroad a Saviour’s love, 
And that shall kindle ours. 

Isaac Watts 

Yeni Creator Spirit us. 

Come, Holy Ghost, our souls inspire, 
And lighten with celestial fire ; 

Thou the Anointing Spirit art, 

Who dost Thy sevenfold gifts impart. 
Thy blessed unction from above 
Is comfort, life, and fire of love; 
Enable with perpetual light 
The dulness of our blinded sight; 
Anoint and cheer our soiled face 
With the abundance of Thy grace •, 
Keep far our foes, give peace at home; 
Where Thou art guide, no ill can come 
Teach us to know the Father, Son, 

And Thee of Both, to be but One, 
That, through the ages all along, 

Tliis may be our endless song. 








“PSALMS AND HYMNS AND SPIRITUAL SONGS." 


503 


“ Praise to thy eternal merit, 
Father, Son, and Holy Spirit!” 

Amen! 

Author Unknown. 


Yen i Creator. 

Creator Spirit, by whose aid 
The world’s foundations first were laid, 
Come, visit every pious mind; 

Come, pour Thy joys on human kind ; 
From sin and sorrow set us free, 

And make Thy temples worthy Thee! 

O source of uncreated light, 

The Father’s promised Paraclete! 

Thrice holy fount, thrice holy fire, 

Our hearts with heavenly love inspire, 
Come, and Thy sacred unction bring, 

To sanctify us while we sing! 

Plenteous of grace, descend from high, 
Rich in Thy sevenfold energy! 

Thou strength of His almighty hand 
Whose power does heaven and earth com¬ 
mand ! 

Proceeding Spirit, our defence, 

Who dost the gifts of tongues dispense, 
And crown’st Thy gifts with eloquence! 

Refine and purge our earthly parts; 

But, oh. inflame and fire our hearts! 

Our frailties help, our vice control— 
Submit the senses to the soul; 

And when rebellious they are grown, 

Then lay Thy hand, and hold them down. 

Chase from our minds th’ infernal foe, 

And peace, the fruit of love, bestow; 

And, lest our feet should step astray, 
Protect and guide us in the way. 

Make us eternal truths receive, 

And practise all that we believe; 

Give us Thyself, that we may see 
The Father, and the Son, by Thee. 

Immortal honor, endless fame, 

Attend the almighty Father’s name! 

The Saviour Son be glorified, 

Who for lost man’s redemption died ! 

And equal adoration be, 

Eternal Paraclete, to Thee! 


In Sorrow. 

Gently, Lord, oh, gently lead us, 
Pilgrims in this vale of tears, 

Through the trials yet decreed us, 

Till our last great change appears. 

When temptation’s darts assail us, 
When in devious paths we stray, 

Let Thy goodness never fail us, 

Lead us in Thy perfect way. 

In the hour of pain and anguish, 

In the hour when death draws near, 

Sutler not our hearts to languish, 

Suffer not our souls to fear; 

And, when mortal life is ended, 

Bid us in Thine arms to rest, 

Till, by angel bands attended, 

We awake among the blest. 

Thomas Hastings. 

Light Shining out oe Darkness 

God moves in a mysterious way 
His wonders to perform ; 

He plants Tlis footsteps in the sea, 

And rides upon the storm. 

Deep in unfathomable mines 
Of never-failing skill, 

He treasures up His bright designs, 

And works His sovereign will. 

Ye fearful saints, fresh courage take ; 
The clouds ye so much dread 

Are big with mercy, and shall break 
In blessings on your head. 

Judge not the Lord by feeble sense, 

But trust Him for His grace ; 

Behind a frowning Providence 
He hides a smiling face. 

His purposes will ripen fast, 

Unfolding every hour; 

The bud may have a bitter taste, 

But sweet will be the flower. 

Blind unbelief is sure to err, 

And scan His work in vain ; 

God is His own interpreter, 

And He will make it plain. 

William Cowper. 


John Dryden. 









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FIRESIDE ENCYCLOPAEDIA OF POETRY. 


God is love. 

God is love! His mercy brightens 
All the path in which we rove ; 

Bliss He wakes, and woe He lightens: 
God is wisdom! God is love! 

Chance and change are busy ever; 

Man decays and ages move; 

But His mercy waneth never: 

God is wisdom ! God is love ! 

E’en the hour that darkest seemeth 
Will His changeless goodness prove; 
From the gloom His brightness stream- 
eth: 

God is wisdom ! God is love ! 

He with earthly cares entwineth 
Hope and comfort from above; 
Everywhere His glory shineth : 

God is wisdom ! God is love I 

God is love! His mercy brightens 
All the path in which we rove; 

Bliss He wakes, and woe He lightens: 
God is wisdom ! God is love! 

Sir John Bowring. 


Father, Thy Will be Done. 

He sendeth sun, He sendeth shower,— 
Alike they’re needful for the flower; 

And joys and tears alike are sent 
To give the soul fit nourishment. 

As comes to me or cloud or sun, 

Father! Thy will, not mine, be done. 

Can loving children e’er reprove 
With murmurs whom they trust and love? 
Creator, I would ever be 
A trusting, loving child to Thee; 

As comes to me or cloud or sun, 

Father! Thy will, not mine, be done. 

Oh, ne’er will I at life repine; 

Enough that Thou hast made it mine. 
When falls the shadow cold of death, 

I yet will sing with parting breath, 

As comes to me or shade or sun, 

Father! Thy will, not mine, be done. 

Sarah Flower Adams. 


The Elixer. 

Teach me, my God and King, 

In all things thee to see, 

And what I do in anything, 

To do it as for thee. 

Not rudely, as a beast, 

To runne into an action ; 

But still to make thee prepossest, 

And give it his perfection. 

A man that looks on glasse, 

On it may stay his eye; 

Or, if he pleaseth, through it passe, 

And then the heaven espie. 

All may of thee partake: 

Nothing can be so mean, 

Which with his tincture (for thy sake) 
Will not grow bright and clean. 

A servant with this clause 
Makes drudgerie divine: 

Who sweeps a room, as for thy laws, 
Makes that and tlT action fine. 

This is the famous stone 
That turneth all to gold ; 

For that which God doth touch and own 
Cannot for lesse be told. 

George Herbert. 

A Hymn. 

Dkop, drop, slow tears, 

And bathe those beauteous feet 

Which brought from heaven 
The news and Prince of Peace! 

Cease not, wet eyes, 

His mercies to entreat; 

To cry for vengeance 
Sin doth never cease; 

In your deep floods 

Drown all my faults and fears; 

Nor let His eye 
See sin, but through my tears. 

Phineas Fletcher. 






PSALMS AND HYMNS AND SPIRITUAL SONGS: 


565 


An Ode. 

The spacious firmament on high, 

With all the blue ethereal sky, 

And spangled heavens, a shining frame, 
Their great Original proclaim. 

The unwearied sun from day to day 
Does his Creator’s power display, 

And publishes to every land 
The work of an almighty Hand. 

Soon as the evening shades prevail, 

The moon takes up the wondrous tale, 
And nightly, to the listening earth, 
Repeats the story of her birth ; 

Whilst all the stars that round her burn, 
And all the planets in their turn, 
Confirm the tidings as they roll, 

And spread the truth from pole to pole. 

What though in solemn silence all 
Move round the dark terrestrial ball ? 
What though nor real voice nor sound 
Amid their radiant orbs be found ? 

In reason’s ear they all rejoice, 

And utter forth a glorious voice, 

For ever singing as they shine, 

' The Hand that made us is divine !” 

Joseph Addison. 

Tee Universal Prayer. 

Deo Opt. Max. 

Father of all! in every age, 

In every clime adored— 

By saint, by savage, and by sage— 
Jehovah, Jove, or Lord ! 

Thou Great First Cause, least under¬ 
stood, 

Who all my sense confined 
To know but this: that Thou art good, 
And that myself am blind; 

Yet gave me, in this dark estate, 

To see the good from ill; 

And, binding Nature fast in fate, 

Left free the human will. 

What conscience dictates to be done, 

Or warns me not to do, 

This teach me more than hell to shun, 
That more than heaven pursue. 


What blessings Thy free bounty gives 
Let me not cast away— 

For God is paid when man receives : 
To enjoy is to obey. 

Yet not to earth’s contracted span 
Thy goodness let me bound, 

Or think Thee Lord alone of man, 
When thousand worlds are round. 

Let not this weak, unknowing hand 
Presume Thy bolts to throw, 

And deal damnation round the land 
On each I judge Thy foe. 

If I am right, Thy grace impart 
Still in the right to stay; 

If I am wrong, oh teach my heart 
To find that better way. 

Save me alike from foolish pride 
Or impious discontent, 

At aught Thy wisdom has denied, 

Or aught Thy goodness lent. 

Teach me to feel another’s woe, 

To hide the fault I see ; 

That mercy I to others show, 

That mercy show to me. 

Mean though I am, not wholly so. 
Since quicken’d by Thy breath ; 

Oh lead me, wheresoe’er I go, 

Through this day’s life or death. 

This day be bread and peace my lot: 
All else beneath the sun 

Thou know’st if best bestow’d or not, 
And let Thy will be done. 

To Thee, whose temple is all space, 
Whose altar, earth, sea, skies—• 

One chorus let all being raise! 

All Nature’s incense rise ! 

Alexander Pope. 


Psalm C. 

With one consent let all the earth 
To God their cheerful voices raise; 
Glad homage pay with awful mirth, 
And sing before Him songs of praise. 

Convinced that He is God alone, 

From whom both we and all proceed 




FIRESIDE ENCYCLOPAEDIA OF POETRY. 


566 


We, whom He chooses for His own, 

The hock that He vouchsafes to feed. 

Oh enter, then, His temple gate, 

Thence to His courts devoutly press; 
And still your grateful hymns repeat, 
And still His name with praises bless. 

For He’s the Lord, supremely good, 

His mercy is for ever sure: 

His truth, which always firmly stood, 

To endless ages shall endure. 

Tatis and Beady. 


Psalm C. 

Before Jehovah’s awful throne, 

Ye nations, bow with sacred joy; 

Know that the Lord is God alone, 

He can create and He destroy. 

His sovereign power, without our aid, 
Made us of clay, and form’d us men ; 

And when like wandering sheep we stray’d, 
He brought us to His fold again. 

We’ll crowd Thy gates with thankful songs, 
High as the heavens our voices raise ; 

And earth, with her ten thousand tongues, 
Shall till Thy courts with sounding 
praise. 

Wide as the world is Thy command, 

Vast as eternity Thy love ; 

Firm as a rock Thy truth must stand, 
When rolling years shall cease to move. 

Isaac Watts. 

(Varied by Charles Wesley.) 

I give Immortal Praise. 

1 give immortal praise 
To God the Father’s love, 

For all my comforts here 
And better hopes above ; 

He sent His own eternal Son 
To die for sins that man had done. 

To God the Son belongs 
Immortal glory too, 

Who bought us with His blood 
From everlasting woe; 

And now He lives, and now He reigns, 
And sees the fruit of all His pains. 


To God the Spirit’s name 
Immortal worship give, 

Whose new-creating power 
Makes the dead sinner live ; 

His work completes the great design, 
And tills the soul with joy divine. 

Almighty God, to Thee 
Be endless honors done ; 

The undivided Three, 

And the mysterious One ! 

Where reason fails with all her powers, 
There faith prevails, and love adores. 

Isaac Watts. 

The Holy Trinity. 

Holy, holy, holy, Lord God Almighty! 
Early in the morning our song shall rise 
to Thee; 

Holy, holy, holy ! Merciful and Mighty ! 
God in Three Persons, blessed Trinity ! 

Holy, holy, holy! all the saints adore 
Thee, 

Casting down their golden crowns around 
the glassy sea, 

Cherubim and Seraphim falling down be¬ 
fore Thee, 

Which wert, and art, and evermore shalt 
be. 

Holy, holy, holy! though the darkness hide 
Thee, 

Though the eye of sinful man Thy glory 
may not see, 

: Only Thou art holy, there is none beside 
Thee, 

Perfect in power, in love, and purity. 

Holy, holy, holy, Lord God Almighty! 

All Thy works shall praise Thy Name 
in earth and sky and sea ; 

Holy, holy, holy ! Merciful and Mighty ! 
God in Three Persons, blessed Trinity ! 

Reginald Heber. 


St. Agnes’ Eve. 

Deep on the convent-roof the snows 
Are sparkling to the moon : 

My breath to heaven like vapor goes : 
May my soul follow soon ! 











“PSALMS AM) HYMNS’ AND SPIRITUAL SONGS." 567 


The shadows of the convent-towers 
Slant down the snowy sward, 

Still creeping with the creeping hours 
That lead me to my Lord : 

Make Thou my spirit pure and clear 
As are the frosty skies, 

Or this first snowdrop of the year 
That in my bosom lies. 

As these white robes are soil’d and 
dark, 

To yonder shining ground ; 

As this pale taper’s earthly spark, 

To yonder argent round ; 

So shows my soul before the Lamb, 

My spirit before Thee ; 

So in mine earthly house I am, 

To that I hope to be. 

Break up the heavens, O Lord ! and far, 
Thro’ all yon starlight keen, 

Draw me, thy bride, a glittering star, 

In raiment white and clean. 

He lifts me to the golden doors ; 

The flashes come and go ; 

All heaven bursts her starry floors, 

And strews her lights below, 

And deepens on and up ! the gates 
Roll back, and far within 
For me the Heavenly Bridegroom waits, 
To make me pure of sin. 

The sabbaths of Eternity, 

One sabbath deep and wide— 

A light upon the shining sea— 

The Bridegroom with his bride ! 

Alfred Tennyson. 


His dying crimson, like a robe, 

Spreads o’er his body on the tree; 
Then am I dead to all the globe, 

And all the globe is dead to me. 

Were the whole realm of Nature mine, 
That were a present far too small; 
Love so amazing, so divine, 

Demands my soul, my life, my all. 

Isaac Watts. 


When all Thy Mercies, 0 my 
God. 

When all Thy mercies, 0 my God, 

My rising soul surveys, 

Transported with the view, I’m lost 
In wonder, love, and praise. 

Oh, how shall words with equal warmth 
The gratitude declare 
That glows within my ravish’d heart? 

But Thou canst read it there. 

Thy providence my life sustain’d, 

And all my wants redress’d, 

When in the silent womb I lay, 

And hung upon the breast. 

To all my weak complaints and cries 
Thy mercy lent an ear, 

Ere yet my feeble thoughts had learnt 
To form themselves in prayer. 

Unnumber’d comforts to my soul 
Thy tender care bestow’d, 

Before my infant heart conceived 
From whence these comforts flow’d. 


GLORYING IN THE CROSS. 

When I survey the wondrous cross 
On which the Prince of glory died, j 
My richest gain I count but loss, 

And pour contempt on all my pride. 

Forbid it, Lord, that 1 should boast 
Save in the death of Christy my God; 
All the vain things that charm me most 
I sacrifice them to His blood. 


When in the slippery paths of youth 
With heedless steps I ran, 

Thine arm, unseen, convey’d me safe, 

And led me up to man. 

Through hidden dangers, toils, and death, 
It gently clear’d my way, 

And through the pleasing snares of vice. 
More to be fear’d than they. 


See from His head, His hands, His feet, 
Sorrow and love flow mingled down ! 
Did e’er such love and sorrow meet. 

Or thorns compose so rich a crown ? 


When worn with sickness, oft hast Thou 
With health renew’d my face, 

And, when in sins and sorrows sunk, 
Revived my soul with grace. 





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FIRESIDE ENCYCLOPAEDIA OF POETRY. 


Thy bounteous hand with worldly bliss 
Has made my cup run o’er, 

And in a kind and faithful friend 
Has doubled all my store. 

Ten thousand thousand p’recious gifts 
My daily thanks employ, 

Nor is the least a cheerful heart 
That tastes those gifts with joy. 

Through every period of my life 
Thy goodness I’ll pursue, 

And after death, in distant worlds, 

The glorious theme renew. 

When Nature fails, and day and night 
Divide thy works no more, 

My ever-grateful heart, 0 Lord, 

Thy mercy shall adore. 

Through all eternity to Thee 
A joyful song I’ll raise, 

But oh, eternity’s too short 
To utter all Thy praise ! 

Joseph Addison. 

Blest be Tiiy love , dear Lord. 

Blest be Thy love, dear Lord, 

That taught us this sweet way, 

Only to love Thee for Thyself, 

And for that love obey. 

0 Thou, our souls’ chief hope! 

We to Thy mercy fly; 

Where’er we are, Thou canst protect, 
Whate’er we need, supply. 

Whether we sleep or wake, 

To Thee we both resign ; 

By night we see, as well as day, 

If Thy light on us shine. 

Whether we live or die, 

Both we submit to Thee; 

In death we live, as well as life, 

If Thine in death we be. 

John Austin. 

Praise to God. 

Praise to God, immortal praise, 

For the love that crowns our days! 
Bounteous source of every joy, 

Let Thy praise our tongues employ. 


For the blessings of the field, 

For the stores the gardens yield; 

For the vine’s exalted juice, 

For the generous olive’s use : 

Flocks that whiten all the plain; 

Yellow sheaves of ripen’d grain ; 

Clouds that drop their fattening dews , 
Suns that temperate warmth diffuse. 

All that Spring with bounteous hand 
Scatters o’er the smiling land ; 

All that liberal Autumn pours 
From her rich o’erflowing stores : 

These to Thee, my God, we owe, 

Source whence all our blessings flow 
And for these my soul shall raise 
Grateful vows and solemn praise. 

Yet, should rising whirlwinds tear 
From its stem the ripening ear; 

Should the fig tree’s blasted shoot 
Drop her green, untimely fruit; 

Should the vine put forth no more, 

Nor the olive yield her store; 

Though the sickening flocks should fall 
And the herds desert the stall; 

Should Thine alter’d hand restrain 
The early and the latter rain; 

Blast each opening bud of joy, 

And the rising year destroy; 

Yet to Thee my soul should raise 
Grateful vows and solemn praise; 

And, when every blessing’s flown, 

Love Thee for Thyself alone! 

Anna L.'etitia Barbauld. 


Hymn. 

Lord, with glowing heart I’d praise Thee 
For the bliss Thy love bestows, 

For the pardoning grace that saves me, 
And the peace that from it flows. 

Help, O God ! my weak endeavor, 

This dull soul to rapture raise; 

Thou must light the flame, or never 
Can my love be warm’d to praise. 

Praise, my soul, the God that sought thee. 
Wretched wanderer, far astray; 






PSALMS AND HYMNS AND SPIRITUAL SONGS: 


569 


Found thee lost, and kindly brought thee 
From the paths of death away. 

Praise, with love’s devoutest feeling, 

Him who saw thy guilt-born fear, 

And, the light of hope revealing, 

Bade the blood-stain’d cross appear. 

Lord! this bosom’s ardent feeling 
Vainly would my lips express; 

Low before Thy footstool kneeling, 

Deign Thy suppliant’s prayer to bless. 

Let Thy grace, my soul’s chief treasure, 
Love’s pure flame within me raise; 

And, since words can never measure, 

Let my life show forth Thy praise. 

Francis Scott Key. 


Come, and Welcome, to Jesus 
Christ. 

Come, ye sinners, poor and wretched, 
Weak and wounded, sick and sore ; 
Jesus ready stands to save you, 

Full of pity, joined with power: 

He is able, 

He is willing : doubt no more. 

Come, ye needy, come, and welcome; 

God’s free bounty glorify; 

True belief, and true repentance, 
Every grace that brings us nigh,— 
Without money 
Come to Jesus Christ and buy. 

Let not conscience make you linger, 
Nor of fitness fondly dream; 

All the fitness He requireth, 

Is to feel your need of Him. 

This He gives you— 

’Tis the Spirits rising beam. 

Come, ye weary, heavy-laden, 

Bruised and broken by the fall; 

If you tarry till you’re better, 

You will never come at all. 

Not the righteous, 

Sinners Jesus came to call. 

View Him grovelling in the garden, 
Lo, your Maker prostrate lies! 

On the bloody tree behold Him; 

Hear Him cry before he dies— 

“ It is finished !” 

Sinners, will not this suffice? 


Lo, the incarnate God ascended, 

Plead the merit of His blood; 

Venture on Him, venture wholly, 

Let no other trust intrude. 

None but Jesus 
Can do helpless sinners good. 

Saints and angels, joined in concert, 

Sing the praises of the Lamb ; 

While the blissful seats of heaven 
Sweetly echo with His Name. 

Hallelujah! 

Sinners here may sing the same. 

Joseph Hart. 

Jehovah Tsidkenu. 

“ THE LORD OUR RIGHTEOUSNESS.” 

I once w-as a stranger to grace and to God, 

I knew not my danger, and felt not my 
load; 

Though friends spoke in rapture of Christ 
on the tree, 

Jehovah Tsidkenu was nothing to me. 

I oft read with pleasure, to sooth or engage, 

Isaiah’s wild measure and John’s simple 
page; 

But e’en when they pictured the blood- 
sprinkled tree, 

Jehovah Tsidkenu seemed nothing to me. 

Like tears from the daughters of Sion that 
roll, 

I wept when the waters went over His soul; 

Yet thought not that my sins had nailed to 
the tree 

Jehovah Tsidkenu—’twas nothing to me. 

When free grace awoke me by light from 
on high, 

When legal fears shook me, I trembled to 
die; 

No refuge, no safety, in self could I see; 

Jehovah Tsidkenu my Saviour must be. 

My terrors all vanished before the sweet 
name; 

My guilty fears banished, with boldness I 
came 

To drink at the fountain, life-giving and 
free: 

Jehovah Tsidkenu is all things to me. 





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FIRESIDE ENCYCLOPAEDIA OF POETRY. 


Jehovah Tsidkenu! my treasure and boast; 

Jehovah Tsidkenu! I ne’er can be lost; 

In Thee I shall conquer by Hood and by 
field, 

My cable, my anchor, my breast-plate and 
shield! 

Even treading the valley, the shadow of 
death, 

This “ watchword ” shall rally my faltering 
breath ; 

For while from life’s fever my God sets me 
free, 

Jehovah Tsidkenu my death-song shall be. 

Robert Murray McCheynk. 


REBECCA’S HYMN. 

When Israel, of the Lord beloved, 

Out from the land of bondage came, 

Her fathers’ God before her moved, 

An awful guide in smoke and flame. 

By day, along the astonish’d lands 
The cloudy pillar glided slow ; 

By night, Arabia’s crimson’d sands 
Return’d the fiery column’s glow. 

There rose the choral hymn of praise, 

And trump and timbrel answer’d keen; 

And Zion’s daughters pour’d their lays, 
With priest’s and warrior’s voice between. 

No portents now our foes amaze— 
Forsaken Israel wanders lone; 

Our fathers would not know Thy ways, 
And Thou hast left them to their own. 

But, present still, though now unseen, 
When brightly shines the prosperous day, 

Be thoughts of Thee a cloudy screen, 

To temper the deceitful ray. 

And oh, when stoops on Judah’s path 
In shade and storm the frequent night, 

Be Thou, long-suffering, slow to wrath, 

A burning and a shining light! 

Our harps we left by Babel’s streams— 
The tyrant’s jest, the Gentile’s scorn; 

No censer round our altar beams, 

And mute are timbrel, trump, and horn. 


But Thou hast said, The blood of goat, 
fhe flesh of rams, I will not prize—- 

A contrite heart, a humble thought, 

Are mine accepted sacrifice. 

Sir Walter Scott. 

Sound the Loud Timbrel. 

Miriam’s Song. 

Sound the loud timbrel o’er Egypt’s dark 
sea! 

Jehovah has triumph’d,—his people are 
free! 

Sing,—for the pride of the tyrant is broken, 
His chariots, his horsemen, all splendid 
and brave,— 

How vain was their boast, for the Lord 
hath but spoken, 

And chariots and horsemen are sunk in 
the wave. 

Sound the loud timbrel o’er Egypt’s dark 
sea ! 

Jehovah has triumph’d,—his people are 
free! 

Praise to the Conqueror, praise to the 
Lord! 

His word was our arrow, his breath was 
our sword. 

Who shall return to tell Egypt the story 
Of those she sent forth in the hour of 
her pride ? 

For the Lord hath look’d out from his 
pillar of glory, 

And all her brave thousands are dash’d 
in the tide. 

Sound the loud timbrel o’er Egypt’s dark- 
sea ! 

Jehovah has triumph’d,—his people are 
free! 

Thomas Moore. 

Behold, I Stand at the Door 
and Knock. 

O Jesu, Thou art standing 
Outside the fast-closed door, 

In lowly patience waiting 
To pass the threshold o’er: 

We bear the name of Christians, 

His name and sign we bear; 

Oli, shame, thrice shame upon us, 

To keep Him standing there! 






1 


‘PSALMS AND HYMNS AND SPIRITUAL SONGS: 


O Jesu, tnou art knocking, 

And lo ! that hand is scarr’d, 

And thorns Thy brow encircle, 

And tears Thy face have marr’d : 
Oh, love that passeth knowledge, 

So patiently to wait! 

Oh, sin that hath no equal, 

So fast to bar the gate! 

O Jesu, Thou art pleading 
In accents meek and low, 

“ I died for you, my children, 

And will ye treat Me so?” 

O Lord, with shame and sorrow 
We open now the door: 

Dear Saviour, enter, enter, 

And leave us nevermore ! 

William Walsh am How. 

-*o«- 

Thou art, 0 God / 

Thou art, O God! the life and light 
Of all this wondrous world we see ; 

Its glow by day, its smile by night, 

Are hut reflections caught from Thee. 
Where’er we turn, Thy glories shine, 

And all things fair and bright are Thine. 

When day, with farewell beam, delays 
Among the opening clouds of even, 

And we can almost think we gaze 
Through golden vistas into heaven,— 
Those hues that make the sun’s decline 
So soft, so radiant, Lord ! are Thine. 

When night, with wings of starry gloom, 
O’ershadows all the earth and skies, 
Like some dark, beauteous bird, whose 
plume 

Is sparkling with unnumber’d eyes,— 
That sacred gloom, those fires divine, 

So grand, so countless, Lord ! are Thine. 

When youthful Spring around us breathes, 
Thy spirit warms her fragrant sigh ; 

And every flower the Summer wreathes 
Ts born beneath that kindling eye. 
Where’er we turn, Thy glories shine, 

And all things fair and bright are Thine. 

Thomas Moore. 

Psalm CXLYIII. 

• 

Come, oh come ! in pious lays 
Sound we God Almighty’s praise; 


571 


Hither bring, in one consent, 

Heart and voice and instrument: 
Music add of every kind, 

Sound the trump, the cornet wind, 
Strike the viol, touch the lute, 

Let no tongue nor string be mute; 
Xor a creature dumb be found 
That hath either voice or sound. 

Let those things which do not live 
In still music praises give ; 

Lowly pipe, ye worms that creep 
On the earth or in the deep : 

Loud aloft your voices strain, 

Beasts and monsters of the main ; 
Birds, your warbling treble sing; 
Clouds, your peals of thunders ring; 
Sun and moon, exalted higher, 

And bright stars, augment this choir 

Come, ye sons of human race, 

In this chorus take your place, 

And amid the mortal throng 
Be you masters of the song: 

Angels and supernal powers, 

Be the noblest tenor yours: 

Let, in praise of God, the sound 
Hun a never-ending round, 

That our song of praise may be 
Everlasting, as is He. 

From earth’s vast and hollow womb 
Music’s deepest base may come; 

Seas and floods, from shore to shore, 
Shall their counter-tenors roar: 

To this concert, when we sing, 
Whistling winds, your descants bring; 
That our song may over-climb 
All the bounds of place and time. 

And ascend, from sphere to sphere, 

To the great Almighty’s ear. 

So from heaven on earth He shall 
Let His gracious blessings fall: 

And this huge wide orb we see 
Shall one choir, one temple be; 

Where in such a praiseful tone 
We will sing what He hath done, 

That the cursed fiends below 
Shall thereat impatient grow . 

Then, oh come, in pious lays 
Sound we God Almighty’s praise ! 

George Wither 













572 


FIRESIDE ENCYCLOPAEDIA OF POETRY. 


PSALM CXVII. 

From all that dwell below the skies 
Let the Creator’s praise arise ; 

Let the Redeemer’s Name be sung 
Through every land, by every tongue ! 

Eternal are Thy mercies, Lord ! 

Eternal truth attends Thy word ; 

Thy praise shall sound from shore to shore, 
Till suns shall rise and set no more. 

Isaac Watts. 


Evening Hymn of the Alpine 
Shepherds. 

Brothers, the day declines; 

Above, the glacier brightens; 

Through hills of waving pines 
The “ vesper halo ” lightens ! 

Now wake the welcome chorus 
To Him our sires adored ; 

To Him who watclieth o’er us,— 

Ye shepherds, praise the Lord! 

From each tower’s embattled crest 
The vesper-bell has toll’d; 

’Tis the hour that bringeth rest 
To the shepherd and his fold: 

From hamlet, rock, and chalet 
Let our evening song be pour’d; 

Till mountain, rock, and valley 
Re-echo,—Praise the Lord ! 

Praise the Lord, who made and gave us 
Our glorious mountain-land ! 

Who deign’d to shield and save us 
From the despot’s iron hand: 

With the bread of life He feeds us; 
Enlighten’d by His word, 

Through pastures green He leads us,— 
Ye shepherds, praise the Lord! 

And hark, below', aloft, 

From clifts that pierce the cloud, 

From blue lakes, calm and soft 
As a virgin in her shroud, 

New strength our anthem gathers ; 

From Alp to Alp ’tis pour’d; 

Bo sang our sainted fathers,— 

Ye shepherds, praise the Lord! 


Praise the Lord! from flood and fell 
Let the voice of old and young— 

All the strength of Appenzel, 

True of heart and sweet of tongue— 
The grateful theme prolong 
With souls in soft accord, 

Till yon stars take up our song,— 
Hallelujah to the Lord! 

William Beattie 

Evening Contemplation. 

Softly now’ the light of day 
Fades upon my sight aw r ay; 

Free from care, from labor free, 

Lord, I w'ould commune w'ith Thee. 

Thou, w'liose all-pervading eye 
Naught escapes, without, within ! 
Pardon each infirmity, 

Open fault, and secret sin. 

Soon for me the light of day 
Shall for ever pass away; 

Then, from sin and sorrow' free, 

Take me, Lord, to dwell with Thfee. 

Thou who, sinless, yet hast know r n 
All of man’s infirmity ! 

Then, from Thine eternal throne, 
Jesus, look with pitying eye. 

George Washington Doane. 

Evening Hymn. 

The shadow's of the evening hours 
Fall from the darkening sky; 

Upon the fragrance of the flowers 
The dews of evening lie: 

Before Thy throne, 0 Lord of heaven. 

We kneel at close of day; 

Look on Thy children from on high, 
And hear us while we pray. 

The sorrow’s of Thy servants, Lord, 

Oh do uot Thou despise; 

But let the incense of our prayers 
Before Thy mercy rise; 

The brightness of the coming night 
Upon the darkness rolls; 

With hopes of future glory chase 
The shadow's on our souls. 

Slowly the rays of daylight fade; 

So fade within our heart 




PSALMS AND HYMNS AND SPIRITUAL SONGS: 


573 


The hopes in earthly love and joy 
That one by one depart: 

Slowly the bright stars, one by one, 
Within the heavens shine,— 

Give us, O Lord, fresh hopes in heaven, 
And trust in things Divine. 

Let peace, O Lord—Thy peace, O God— 
Upon our souls descend; 

From midnight fears and perils Thou 
Our trembling hearts defend ; 

Give us a respite from our toil; 

Calm and subdue our woes ;• 

Through the long day w’e sutler, Lord, 
Oh, give us now' repose. 

Adelaide Anne Procter. 

Morning. 

Hues of the rich unfolding morn, 

That, ere the glorious sun be born, 

By some soft touch invisible 
Around his path are taught to swell;— 

Thou rustling breeze so fresh and gay, 
That dancest forth at opening day, 

And, brushing by with joyous w’ing, 
Wakenest each little leaf to sing;— 

Ye. fragrant clouds of dewy steam, 

By which deep grove and tangled stream 
Pay, for soft rains in season given, 

Their tribute to the genial heaven;— 

Why waste your treasures of delight 
Upon our thankless, joyless sight; 

Who day by day to sin awake, 

Seldom of heaven and you partake ? 

Oh, timely happy, timely wise, 

Hearts that w'ith rising morn arise! 

Eyes that the beam celestial view, 

Which evermore makes all things new'! 

New every morning is the love 
Our w'akening and uprising prove, 
Through sleep and darkness safely brought, 
Restored to life, and power, and thought. 


New mercies, each returning day, 

Hover around us while we pray; 

New' perils past, new' sins forgiven, 

New' thoughts of God, new hopes of 
heaven. 


If, on our daily course, our mind 
Be set to hallow all we find, 

New treasures still, of countless price, 

God will provide for sacrifice. 

Old friends, old scenes, will lovelier be, 

As more of heaven in each we see; 

Some softening gleam of love and prayer 
Shall dawn on every cross and care. 

As for some dear familiar strain 
Untired w'e ask, and ask again, 

Ever, in its melodious store, 

Finding a spell unheard before; 

Such is the bliss of souls serene, 

When they have sworn, and steadfast mean, 
Counting the cost, in all t’ espy 
Their God, in all themselves deny. 

Oh, could we learn that sacrifice, 

What lights would all around us rise! 
How would our hearts with wisdom talk 
Along life’s dullest, dreariest walk! 

We need not bid, for cloister’d cell, 

Our neighbor and our w'ork farewell, 

Nor strive to wind ourselves too high 
For sinful man beneath the sky; 

The trivial round, the common task, 

Will furnish all w r e ought to ask; 

Room to deny ourselves,—a road 
To bring us, daily, nearer God. 

Seek w'e no more: content w'ith these, 

Let present rapture, comfort, ease, 

As heaven shall bid them, come and go; 
The secret this of rest below. 

Only, O Lord, in Thy dear love 
Fit us for perfect rest above, 

And help us, this and every day, 

To live more nearly as w'e pray! 

John Keble. 

Morning Hymn. 

Awake, my soul, and with the sun 
Thy daily stage of duty run; 

Shake off dull sfbtli, and joyful rise 
To pay thy morning sacrifice. 

Thy precious time misspent redeem; 
Each present day thy last esteem ; 






574 


FIRESIDE ENCYCLOPEDIA OF POETRY. 


Improve thy talent with due care; 

For the great day thyself prepare. 

In conversation be sincere; 

Keep conscience as the noontide clear; 
Think how All-seeing God thy ways 
And all thy secret thoughts surveys. • 

By influence of the light divine 
Let thy own light to others shine; 

Keflect all Heaven’s propitious rays, 

In ardent love and cheerful praise. 

Wake and lift up thyself, my heart, 

And with the angels bear thy part, 

Who, all night long, unwearied sing 
High praise to the Eternal King. 

Awake! awake! Ye heavenly choir, 

May your devotion me inspire, 

That I, like you, my age may spend, 

Like you may on my God attend ! 

May I, like you, in God delight, 

Have all day long my God in sight, 
Perform like you my Maker’s will! 

Oh may T never more do ill! 

Had I your wings to Heaven I’d fly; 

But God shall that defect supply; 

And my soul, wing’d with warm desire, 
Shall all day long to Heaven aspire. 

All praise to Thee, who safe hast kept, 
And hast refresh’d me whilst I slept! 
Grant, Lord, when I from death shall wake, 
I may of endless light partake ! 

I would not wake, nor rise again, 

Ev’n Heaven itself I would disdain, 

Wert thou not there to be enjoy’d, 

And 1 in hymns to be employ’d! 

Heaven is, dear Lord, where’er Thou art; 
Oh- never then from me depart! 

For, to my soul, ’tis hell to be 
But for one moment void of Thee. 

Lord, I my vows to thee renew ; 

Disperse my sins as morning dew ; 

Guard my first springs of thought and will, 
And with Thyself my spirit fill. 

Direct, control, suggest, this day, 

All I design, or do, or *ay; 

That all my powers, with all their might, 
In Thy sole glory may unite. 

Praise God, from whom all blessings flow; 
Praise Him, all creatures here below ! 


| Praise Him above, ye heavenly host; 

I Praise Father, Son, and Holy Ghost! 

Thomas Ken. 

0 Little Town of Bethlehem. 

O i.ittle town of Bethlehem, 

How still we see thee lie! 

Above thy deep and dreamless sleep 
The silent stars go by ; 

Yet in thy dark streets shiueth 
The everlasting Light; 

The hopes and fears of all the years 
Are met in thee to-night. 

For Christ is born of Mary, 

And, gathered all above, 

While mortals sleep, the angels keep 
Their watch of wondering love. 

O morning stars, together 
Proclaim the holy birth ! 

And praises sing to God the King, 

And peace to men on earth. 

How silently, how silently, 

The wondrous gift is given ! 

So God imparts to human hearts 
The blessings of His heaven. 

No ear may hear His coming, 

But in this world of sin, 

Where meek souls will receive Him still, 
The dear Christ enters in. 

O holy Child of Bethlehem ! 

Descend to us, we pray ; 

Cast out our sin, and enter in, 

Be born in us to-day. 

We hear the Christmas angels 
The great glad tidings tell; 

Oh come to us, abide with us, 

Our Lord Emmanuel! 

Phili.ips Brooks. 

Evening. 

’Tis gone, that bright and orbed blaze, 
Fast fading from our wistful gaze; 

Yon mantling cloud has hid from sight 
The last faint pulse of quivering light. 

In darkness and in weariness 
The traveller on his way must press, 

No gleam to watch on tree or tower, 
Whiling away the lonesome hour. 








PSALMS AND HYMNS AND SPIRITUAL SONGS:’ 


7 *> 


Sun of my soul, Thou Saviour dear, 

It is not night if Thou be near; 

Oh! may no earth-horn cloud arise 
To hide Thee from Thy servant’s eyes! 

When round Thv wondrous works below 
My searching rapturous glance T throw, 
Tracing out wisdom, power, and love, 

In earth or sky, in stream or grove; 

Or, by the light Thy words disclose, 
Watch time’s full river as it flows, 
Scanning Thv gracious Providence, 

Where not too deep for mortal sense; 

When with dear friends sweet talk I hold, 
And all the flowers of life unfold ; 

Let not my heart within me burn, 

Except in all I Thee discern 1 

When the soft dews of kindly sleep 
My wearied eyelids gently steep, 

Be my last thought, How sweet to rest 
For ever on my Saviour’s breast! 

Abide with me from morn till eve, 

For without Thee I cannot live! 

Abide with me when night is nigh, 

For without Thee I dare not die! 

Thou Framer of the light and dark, 

Steer through the tempest Thine own ark ! 
Amid the howling wintry sea 
We are in port if we have Thee. 

The rulers of this Christian land, 

’Twixt Thee and us ordain’d to stand, 
Guide Thou their course, O Lord, aright! 
Let all do all as in Thy sight! 

Oh I by Thine own sad burthen, borne 
So meekly up the hill of scorn, 

Teach Thou Thy priests their daily cross 
To bear as Thine, nor count it loss! 

If some poor wandering child of Thine 
Have spurn’d, to-day, the voice divine; 
Now, Lord, the gracious work begin ; 

Let him no more lie down in sin ! 

Watch by the sick, enrich the poor 
With blessings from Thy boundless store ! 
Be every mourner’s sleep to-night 
Like infant’s slumbers, pure and light! 


Come near and bless us when we wake, 
Ere through the world our way we take; 
Till, in the ocean of Thy love, 

We lose ourselves in Heaven above! 

John Keih.e. 

Evening Hymn. 

All praise to Thee, my God, this night. 
For all the blessings of the light; 

Keep me, oh keep me, King of kings, 
Beneath Thine own Almighty wings! 

Forgive me, Lord, for Thy dear Son, 

The ill that I this day have done ; 

That with the world, myself, and Thee, 

I, ere I sleep, at peace may be. 

Teach me to live, that I may dread 
The grave as little as my bed ! 

To die, that this vile body may 
Rise glorious at the awful day! 

Oh may mv soul on Thee repose ; 

And may sweet sleep mine eyelids close; 
Sleep, that may me more vigorous make 
To serve my God when 1 awake! 

When in the night I sleepless lie, 

My soul with heavenly thoughts supply! 
Let no ill dreams disturb my rest, 

No powers of darkness me molest! 

Dull sleep, of sense me to deprive! 

I am but half my time alive: 

Thy faithful lovers, Lord, are grieved 
To lie so long of Thee bereaved. 

But though sleep o’er my frailty reigns, 
Let it not hold me long in chains ! 

And now and then let loose my heart, 
Till it an hallelujah dart! 

The faster sleep the senses binds, 

The more unfetter’d are our minds; 

| Oh may my soul, from matter free, 

I Thy loveliness unclouded see ! 

Oh when shall I, in endless day, 

For ever chase dark sleep away, 

And hymns with the supernal choir 
Incessant sing, and never tire? 

Oh may my Gua/dian, while I sleep, 
Close to my bed His vigils keep; 










576 


FIRESIDE ENCYCLOPAEDIA OF POETRY. 


His love angelical instill; 

Stop all the avenues of ill: 

May He celestial joy rehearse, 

And thought to thought with me converse; 
Or in my stead, all the night long, 

Sing to my God a grateful song! 

Praise God, from whom all blessings flow, 
Praise Him, all creatures here below ! 
Praise Him above, ye heavenly host! 
Praise Father, Son, and Holy Ghost! 

Thomas Ken. 


At Sunsetting. 

Behold the sun, that seem’d but now 
Enthroned overhead, 

Beginneth to decline below 
The globe whereon we tread ; 

And he, whom yet we look upon 
With comfort and delight, 

Will quite depart from hence anon, 

And leave us to the night. 

Thus time, unheeded, steals away 
The life which Nature gave ; 

Thus are our bodies every day 
Declining to the grave : 

Thus from us all those pleasures fly 
Whereon we set our heart; 

And when the night of death draws nigh, 
Thus will they all depart. 

Lord ! though the sun forsake our sight, 
And mortal hopes are vain ; 

Let still Thine everlasting light 
Within our souls remain ! 

And in the nights of our distress 
Vouchsafe those rays divine, 

Which from the Sun of Righteousness 
For ever brightly shine! 

George Wither. 


Evening Hymn. 

The night is come ; like to the day, 
Depart not thou, great God, away, 

Let not my sins, black as the night, 
Eclipse the lustre of Thy light. 

Keep in my horizon ; for to me 
The sun makes not the day, but Thee. 


Thou whose nature cannot sleep, 

On my temples sentry keep : 

Guard me ’gainst those watchful foes, 
Whose eyes are open while mine close. 
Let no dreams my head infest 
But such as Jacob’s temples blest. 
Whilst I do rest, my soul advance ; 
Make my sleep a holy trance : 

That I may, my rest being wrought, 
Awake into some holy thought, 

And with as active vigor run 
My course, as doth the nimble sun. 
Sleep is a death ; oh, make me try, 

By sleeping, what it is to die : 

And as gently lay my head 
On my grave as now my bed. 

Howe’er I rest, great God, let me 
Awake again at last with Thee. 

And thus assured, behold I lie 
Securely, or to wake or die. 

These are my drowsy days ; in vain 
1 do now wake to sleep again : 

Oh, come that hour when I shall never 
Sleep thus again, but wake for ever. 

Sir Thomas Browne. 


Evening Hymn. 

Sweet Saviour ! bless us ere we go; 

Thy word into our minds instill, 

And make our lukewarm hearts to glow 
With lowly love and fervent will; 
Through life’s long day and death’s dark 
night, 

O gentle Jesus, be our light. 

The day is done, its hours have run, 

And Thou hast taken count of all,— 
The scanty triumphs grace hath won, 

The broken vow, the frequent fall ; 
Through life’s long day and death’s dart 
night, 

0 gentle Jesus, be our light. 

Grant us, dear Lord, from evil ways 
True absolution and release, 

And bless us more than in past days, 

With purity and inward peace ; 

Through life’s long day and death’s dark 
night, 

O gentle Jesus, be our light. 




PSALMS AND HYMNS ANI) SPIRITUAL SONGS. 


577 


Do more than pardon,—give us joy, 

Sweet fear, and sober liberty, 

And loving hearts without alloy, 

That only long to be like Thee; 

Through life’s long day and death’s dark 
night, 

0 gentle Jesus, be our light. 

Labor is sweet, for Thou hast toil’d, 

And care is light, for Thou hast cared: 
Let not our works with self be soil’d, 

Nor in unsimple ways ensnared; 
Through life’s long day and death’s dark 
night, 

O gentle Jesus, be our light. 

For all we love—the poor, the sad, 

The sinful—unto Thee we call; 

Oh [ let Thy mercy make us glad ! 

Thou art our Jesus and our all; 

Through life’s long day and death’s dark 
night, 

O gentle Jesus, be our light. 

Sweet Saviour! bless us; night is come; 

Through all its watches near us he; 
Good angels watch about our home, 

And we are one day nearer Thee. 
Through life’s long day and death’s dark 
night, 

O gentle Jesus, he our light. 

Frederick William Faber. 


Abide with Me. 

Abide with me ! fast falls the even-tide; 
The darkness deepens; Lord, with me 
abide! 

When other helpers fail, and comforts flee, 
Help of the helpless, oh abide with me! 

Swift to its close ebbs out life’s little day; 
Earth’s joys grow dim; its glories pass 
away ; 

Change and decay in all around I see: 

O Thou, who changest not, abide with me! 

Not a brief glance I beg, a passing word : 
But, as Thou dwell’st with Thy disciples, 
Lord, 

Familiar, condescending, patient, free, 
Come, not to sojourn, but abide, with me! 
37 


! Come not in terrors, as the King of kings; 

But kind and good, with healing in Thy 
wings; 

Tears for all woes, a heart for every plea; 

Come, Friend of sinners, and thus ’bide 
with me! 

Thou on my head in early youth didst 
smile; 

And, though rebellious and perverse mean¬ 
while, 

Thou hast not left me, oft as I left Thee. 

On to the close, O Lord, abide with me ! 

I need Thy Presence every passing hour ; 

What but Thy grace can foil the Tempter’s 
power ? 

Who like Thyself my guide and stay can 
be ? 

Through cloud and sunshine, oh abide with 
me! 

I fear no foe, with Thee at hand to bless: 

Ills have no weight, and tears no bitter¬ 
ness : 

Where is Death’s sting? where, Grave, thy 
victory? 

I triumph still, if Thou abide with me! 

Hold then Thy cross before my closing 
eyes! 

Shine through the gloom, and point me to 
the skies! 

Heaven’s morning breaks, and earth’s vain 
shadows flee; 

In life and death, 0 Lord, abide with me ! 

Henry Francis Lyte. 


Midnight Hymn. 

My God, now I from sleep awake, 

The sole possession of me take : 

From midnight terrors me secure, 

And guard my heart from thoughts impurel 

Bless’d angels! while we silent lie, 

You hallelujahs sing on high ; 

You joyful hymn the Ever-blest, 

Before the Throne, and never rest. 

I with your choir celestial join 
In offering up a hymn divine ; 

With you in Heaven I hope to dwell, 

And bid the night and world farewell. 













578 


FIRESIDE ENCYCLOPEDIA OF POETRY. 


My soul, when I shake oft’ this dust, 

Lord, in Thy arms I will entrust: 

Oh make me Thy peculiar care ; 

Some mansion for my soul prepare ! 

Give me a place at Thy saints’ feet, 

Or some fall’n angel’s vacant seat! 

I’ll strive to sing as loud as they, 

Who sit above in brighter day. 

Oh may I always ready stand 
With my lamp burning in my hand: 

May I in sight of Heaven rejoice, 
AVhene’er I hear the Bridegroom’s voice ! 

All praise to Thee in light array’d, 

Who light Thy dwelling-place hast made ; 
A boundless ocean of bright beams 
From Thy all-glorious Godhead streams. 

The Sun in its meridian height 
Is very darkness in Thy sight! 

My soul oh lighten and inflame, 

With thought and love of Thy great Name! 

Bless’d Jesu, Thou, on Heaven intent, 
Whole nights hast in devotion spent; 

But I, frail creature, soon am tired, 

And all my zeal is soon expired. 

My soul, how canst thou weary grow 
Of antedating bliss below, 

In sacred hymns, and heavenly love, 
Which will eternal be above ? 

Shine on me, Lord, new life impart! 

Fresh ardors kindle in my heart! 

One ray of Thy all-quickening light 
Dispels the sloth and clouds of night. 

Lord, lest the tempter me surprise, 

Watch over Thine own sacrifice ! 

All loose, all idle thoughts cast out, 

And make my very dreams devout! 

Praise God, from whom all blessings flow, 
Praise Him, all creatures here below ! 
Praise Him above, ye heavenly host; 
Praise Father, Son, and Holy Ghost! 

Thomas Ken. 

Hymn. 

How are Thy servants blest, 0 Lord ! 

How sure is their defence ! 


Eternal wisdom is their guide, 

Their help omnipotence. 

In foreign realms, and lands remote. 
Supported by Thy care, 

: Through burning climes I pass’d unhurt, 
And breathed in tainted air. 

Thy mercy sweeten’d every soil, 

Made every region please ; 

The hoary Alpine hills it warm’d, 

And smooth’d the Tyrrhene seas. 

Think, O my soul, devoutly think, 

How with affrighted eyes 

Thou saw’st the wide-extended deep 
In all its horrors rise ! 

Confusion dwelt in every face, 

And fear in every heart, 

When waves on waves, and gulfs in gulfs, 
O’ercame the pilot’s art. 

Yet then from all my griefs, 0 Lord, 

Thy mercy set me free; 

Whilst in the confidence of prayer 
My soul took hold on Thee. 

For though in dreadful whirls we hung, 
High on the broken wave ; 

I knew Thou wert not slow to hear, 

Nor impotent to save. 

The storm was laid, the winds retired, 
Obedient to Thy will; 

The sea, that roar’d at Thy command, 

At Thy command was still. 

In midst of dangers, fears, and deaths, 
Thy goodness I’ll adore— 

And praise Thee for Thy mercies past, 
And humbly hope for more. 

My life, if Thou preserv’st my life, 

Thy sacrifice shall be ; 

And death, if death must be my doom, 
Shall join my soul to Thee. 

Joseph Addison. 


Thanksgiving Hymn. 

Come, ye thankful people, come, 
Raise the song of Harvest-Home l 
All is safely gather’d in, 

Ere the winter-storms begin ; 










PSALMS AND HYMNS AND SPIRITUAL SONGS.' 


yy 


God, our Maker, doth provide 
For our wants to be supplied ; 

Come to God’s own temple, come, 
Raise the song of Harvest-Home ! 

We ourselves are God’s own field, 

Fruit unto His praise to yield ; 

Wheat and tares together sown, 

Unto joy or sorrow grown : 

First the blade, and then the ear, 

Then the full corn shall appear : 

Grant, 0 harvest Lord, that we 
Wholesome grain and pure may be ! 

For the Lord our God shall come, 

And shall take His harvest home ; 
From His field shall purge away 
All that doth offend, that day ; 

Give His Angels charge at last 
In the fire the tares to cast, 

But the fruitful ears to store 
In His garner evermore. 

Then, thou Church triumphant, come, 
Raise the song of Harvest-Home ! 

All are safely gather’d in, 

Free from sorrow, free from sin ; 

There for ever purified, 

In God’s garner to abide : 

Come, ten thousand Angels, come, 
Raise the glorious Harvest-Home ! 

Henry Alford. 


A THANKSGIVING TO GOD FOR 
His House. 

Lord, Thou hast given me a cell, 

Wherein to dwell; 

A little house, whose humble roof 
Is weather-proof; 

Under the sparres of which I lie 
Both soft and drie; 

Where Thou, my chamber for to ward, 
Hath set a guard 

Of harmlesse thoughts, to watch and keep 
Me while I sleep. 

Low is my porch, as is my fate; 

Both void of state; 

And yet the threshold of my doore 
Is worn by th’ poore, 

Who thither come and freely get 
Good words or meat. 


579 


Like as my parlour, so my hall 

And kitchin’s small; 

A little butterie, and therein 
A little byn, 

Which keeps my little loafe of bread 
Unchipt, unflead; 

Some brittle sticks of thorne or brier ^ 
Make me a fire, 

Close by whose living coale I sit, 

And glow like it. 

Lord, I confesse too, when I dine, 

The pulse is Thine, 

And all those other bits that bee 

There placed by Thee; 

The worts, the purslain, and the messe 
Of water-cresse, 

Which of Thy kindnesse Thou hast sent; 
And my content 

Makes those, and my beloved beet, 

To be more sweet. 

’Tis Thou that crown’st my glittering hearth 
With guiltlesse mirth, 

And giv’st me wassaile bowles to drink, 
Spiced to the brink. 

Lord, ’tis Thy plenty-dropping hand, 

That soiles my land, 

And giv’st me, for my bushell sowne, 
Twice ten for one; 

Thou mak’st my teeming hen to lay 
Her egg each day; 

Besides my healthful ewes to bear 
Me twins each yeare ; 

The while the conduits of my kine 
Run creame, for wine: 

All these, and better Thou dost send 
Me, to this end, 

That I should render, for my part, 

A thankfull heart; 

Which, fired with incense, I resigne, 

As wholly Thine; 

But the acceptance, that must be, 

My Christ, by Thee. 

Robert Herrick. 

“ help, Lord , or We Perish .” 

When through the torn sail the wild tem¬ 
pest is streaming, 

When o’er the dark wave the red lightning 
is gleaming, 

Nor hope lends a ray, the poor seaman to 
cherish, 

We fly to our Maker; “ Help, Lord, or we 
perish.” 






580 


FIRESIDE ENCYCLOPAEDIA OF POETRY. 


O Jesus ! once tossed on the breast of the 
billow, 

Aroused by the shriek of despair from Thy 
pillow, 

Now seated in glory, the mariner cherish 
Who cries in his danger, “ Help, Lord, or 
. we perish.” 

And oh, when the whirlwind of passion is 
raging, 

When hell in our heart his wild warfare is 
waging, 

Arise in Thy strength, Thy redeemed to 
cherish; 

Rebuke the destroyer: “ Help, Lord, or we 
perish.” 

Reginald IIeber. 

SUNDA Y. 

O day most calm, most bright! 

The fruit of this, the next world’s bud; 
The indorsement of supreme delight, 

Writ by a Friend, and with His blood; 
The couch of time, care’s balm and bay, 
The week were dark but for thy light; 

Thy torch doth show the way. 

The other days and thou 
Make up one man, whose face thou art, 
Knocking at heaven with thy brow: 

The working days are the back part, 

The burden of the week lies there, 

Making the whole to stoop and bow, 

Till thy release appear. 

Man had straightforward gone 
To endless death; but thou dost pull 
And turn us round to look on One, 

Whom, if we were not very dull, 

We could not choose but look on still, 
Since there is no place so alone, 

The which He doth not fill! 

Sundays the pillars are 
On which heaven’s palace archfed lies: 

The other days fill up the spare 
And hollow room with vanities; 

They are the fruitful beds and borders 
Of God’s rich garden; that is bare, 

Which parts their ranks and orders. 

The Sundays of man’s life, 

Threaded together on time’s string, 


Make bracelets to adorn the wife 
Of the eternal glorious King; 

On Sunday heaven’s gate stands ope; 
Blessings are plentiful and rife, 

More plentiful than hope. 

This day my Saviour rose, 

And did enclose this light for His, 

That, as each beast his manger knows, 
Man might not of his fodder miss; 

Christ hath took in this piece of ground, 
And made a garden there for those 
Who want herbs for their wound. 

The rest of our creation 
Our great Redeemer did remove 
With the same shake, which at His passion 
Did th’ earth, and all things with it, move; 
As Samson bore the doors away, 

Christ’s hands, though nail’d, wrought our 
salvation, 

And did unhinge that day. 

The brightness of that day 
We sullied by our foul offence; 

Wherefore that robe we cast away, 

Having a new at His expense, 

Whose drops of blood paid the full price 
That was required to make us gay 
And fit for Paradise. 

George Herbert. 

Son-Da yes. 

Bright shadows of true rest! some shoots 
of blisse; 

Heaven once a week ; 

The next world’s gladnesse prepossest in 
this; 

A day to seek : 

Eternity in time ; the steps by which 
We climb above all ages; lamps that 
light 

Man through his heap of dark days ; and 
the rich 

And full redemption of the whole week’s 
flight! 

The pulleys unto headlong man; time’s 
bower; 

The narrow way; 

Transplanted paradise; God’s walking 
houre; 

The cool o’ th’ day ! 








“PSALMS AND HYMNS AND SPIRITUAL SONGS: 


581 


The creature’s jubile ; God’s parle with 
dust; 

Heaven here; man on those hills of myrrh 
and flowres; 

Angels descending ; the returns of trust; 

A gleam of glory after six-days showres ! 

The Churche’s love-feasts ; time’s prerog¬ 
ative 

And interest 

Deducted from the whole; the combs and 
hive, 

And home of rest. 

The milky-way chalkt out with suns; a 
clue, 

That guides through erring hours ; and 
in full story 

A taste of heav’n on earth ; the pledge 
and cue 

Of a full feast! and the out-courts of 
glory. 

Henry Vaughan. 


Missionary Hymn. 

The morning light is breaking; 
The darkness disappears; 

The sons of earth are waking 
To penitential tears. 

Each breeze that sweeps the ocean 
Brings tidings from afar, 

Of nations in commotion, 
Prepared for Zion’s war. 

Rich dews of grace come o’er us 
Tn many a gentle shower, 

And brighter scenes before us 
Are opening every hour : 

Each day, to Heaven going, 
Abundant answer brings, 

And heavenly gales are blowing, 
With peace upon their wings. 

See heathen nations beuding 
Before the God we love, 

And thousand hearts ascending 
In gratitude above; 

While sinners, now confessing, 
The gospel call obey, 

And seek the Saviour’s blessing, 

A nation in a day. 

Blest river of salvation, 

Pursue thy onward way; 


Flow thou to every nation, 

Nor in thy richness stay: 

Stay not till all the lowly 
Triumphant reach their home; 
Stay not till all the holy 

Proclaim, “ The Lord is come!” 

Samuel Francis Smith. 


To Tiiy Temple I Repair. 

To Thy temple I repair; 

Lord, I love to worship there ; 

When within the veil I meet 
Christ before the mercy-seat. 

Thou, through Him, art reconciled ; 
I, through Him, became Thy child ; 
Abba, Father ! give me grace 
In Thy courts to seek Thy face ! 

While Thy glorious praise is sung. 
Touch my lips, unloose my tongue, 
That my joyful soul may bless 
Thee, the Lord my Righteousness! 

While the prayers of saints ascend, 
God of love ! to mine attend ! 

Hear me, for Thy Spirit pleads ; 
Hear, for Jesus intercedes ! 

While I hearken to Thy law, 

Fill my soul with humble awe; 

Till Thy Gospel bring to me 
Life and immortality: 

While Thy ministers proclaim 
Peace and pardon in Thy Name, 
Through their voice, by faith, may I 
Hear Thee speaking from the sky ! 

From Thy house when I return, 

May my heart within me burn; 

And at evening let me say, 

I have walk’d with God to-day ! 

James Montgomery, 

PARAPHRASE OF PSALM XXIII. 
The Lord my pasture shall prepare, 
And feed me with a Shepherd’s care; 
His presence shall my wants supply, 
And guard me with a watchful eye; 
My noonday walks He shall attend, 
i And all my midnight hours defend. 






582 


FIRESIDE ENCYCLOPAEDIA OF POETRY . 


When in the sultry glebe I faint, 

Or on the thirsty mountain pant, 

To fertile vales and dewy meads 
My weary, wandering steps He leads, 
Where peaceful rivejrs, soft and slow, 
Amid the verdant landscape flow. 

Though in the paths of death I tread, 
With gloomy horrors overspread, 

My steadfast heart shall fear no ill, 

For Thou, O Lord, art with me still; 

Thy friendly crook shall give me aid, 

And guide me through the dreadful shade. 

Though in a bare and rugged way, 
Through devious lonely wilds I stray, 

Thy bounty shall my wants beguile; 

The barren wilderness shall smile, 

With sudden greens and herbage crown’d, 
And streams shall murmur all around. 

Joseph Addison. 


A Parable from Liebig. 

The church bells were ringing, the devil 
sat singing 

On the stump of a rotting old tree; 

“ Oh faith it grows cold, and the creeds 
they grow old, 

And the world is nigh ready for me.” 

The bells went on ringing, a spirit came 
singing, 

And smiled as he crumbled the tree; 

“ Yon wood does but perish new seedlings 
to cherish, 

And the world is too live yet for thee.” 

Charles Kingsley. 

Hymn. 

With broken heart and contrite sigh, 

A trembling sinner, Lord, I cry; 

Thy pardoning grace is rich and free: 

O God, be merciful to me! 

I smite upon my troubled breast, 

With deep and conscious guilt oppressed, 
Christ and his cross my only plea: 

O God, be merciful to me! 

Far off I stand with tearful eyes, 

Nor dare uplift them to the skies; 


But thou dost all my anguish see, 

0 God, be merciful to me! 

Nor alms, nor deeds that I have done, 

Can for a single sin atone; 

To Calvary alone I flee: 

0 God, be merciful to me! 

And when, redeemed from sin and hell, 
With all the ransomed throng I dwell, 

My raptured song shall ever be, 

God has been merciful to me! 

Cornelius Elven. 

Holy Bible, Book Divine. 

Holy Bible, book divine, 

Precious treasure, thou art mine; 

Mine to tell me whence I came. 

Mine to teach me what I am. 

Mine to chide me when I rove, 

Mine to show a Saviour’s love; 

Mine art thou to guide my feet, 

Mine to judge, condemn, acquit. 

Mine to comfort in distress, 

If the Holy Spirit bless ; 

Mine to show by living faith 
Man can triumph over death. 

Mine to tell of joys to come, 

And the rebel sinner’s doom ; 

Holy Bible, Book divine, 

Precious treasure, thou art mine. 

John Burton. 

Crossing the Bar. 

Sunset and evening star, 

And one clear call for me! 

And may there be no moaning of the bar, 
When I put out to sea, 

But such a tide as moving seems asleep, 
Too full for sound and foam, 

When that which drew from out the bound¬ 
less deep 

Turns again home. 

Twilight and evening bell, 

And after that the dark ! 

And may there be no sadness of farewell, 
When I embark; 

For tho’ from out our bourne of Time and 
Place 

The flood may bear me far, 




PSALMS AND HFAINS AND SPIRITUAL SONGS: 


583 


I hope to see my Pilot face to face 
When I have crost the bar. 

Alfred Tennyson. 


B A PT1SMA L IIYMN. 

In token that thou shalt not fear 
Christ crucified to own, 

We print the cross upon thee here, 

And stamp thee His alone. 

In token that thou shalt not blush 
To glory in His name, 

We blazon here upon thy front 
His glory and His shame. 

In token that thou shalt not flinch 
Christ’s quarrel to maintain, 

But ’neath His banner manfully 
Firm at thy post remain; 

In token that thou too shalt tread 
The path He travell’d by, 

Endure the cross, despise the shame, 
And sit thee down on high ; 

Thus, outwardly and visibly, 

We seal thee for His own, 

And may the brow that wears His cross 
Hereafter share His crown ! 

Henry Alford. 


Fountain of Mercy / God of 
LOVE! 

Fountain of mercy! God of love! 
How rich Thy bounties are! 

The rolling seasons, as they move, 
Proclaim Thy constant care. 

When in the bosom of the earth 
The sower hid the grain, 

Thy goodness mark’d its secret birth, 
And sent the early rain. 

The spring’s sweet influence was Thine, 
The plants in beauty grew ; 

Thou gavest refulgent suns to shine, 
And mild, refreshing dew. 

These various mercies from above 
Matured the swelling grain, 

A yellow harvest crowns Thy love, 

And plenty fills the plain. 


Seed-time and harvest, Lord, alone 
Thou dost on man bestow; 

Let him not then forget to own 
From Whom his blessings flow! 

Fountain of love! our praise is Thine; 

To Thee our songs we’ll raise, 

And all created Nature join 
In sweet harmonious praise! 

Alice Flowerdew. 


What is Prayer? 

Prayer is the soul’s sincere desire, 
Utter’d or unexpress’d; 

The motion of a hidden fire 
That trembles in the breast. 

Prayer is the burthen of a sigh, 

The falling of a tear, 

The upward glancing of the eye, 

When none but God is near. 

Prayer is the simplest form of speech 
That infant lips can try ; 

Prayer the sublimest strains that reach 
The Majesty on high. 

Prayer is the contrite sinner’s voice 
Returning from his ways, 

While angels in their songs rejoice, 
And cry, Behold, he prays! 

Prayer is the Christian’s vital breath. 

The Christian’s native air; 

His watchword at the gates of death ; 
He enters heaven with prayer. 

The saints in prayer appear as one 
In word, and deed, and mind; 

While with the Father and the Son 
Sweet fellowship they find. 

Nor prayer is made by man alone : 

The Holy Spirit pleads ; 

And Jesus, on the eternal Throne, 

For mourners intercedes. 

O Thou, by whom we come to God ! 

The Life, the Truth, the Way ! 

The path of prayer Thyself hast trod: 
Lord ! teach us how to pray ! 

James Montgomery. 






584 


FIRESIDE ENCYCLOPAEDIA OF POETRY. 


Hymn. 

Pilgrim, burdened with thy sin, 

Come the way to Zion’s gate; 

There, till Mercy let thee in, 

Knock, and weep, and watch, and wait. 
Knock—He knows the sinner’s cry; 

Weep—He loves the mourner’s tears; 
Watch—for saving grace is nigh ; 

Wait—till heavenly light appears. 

Hark ! it is the Bridegroom’s voice: 

“ Welcome, pilgrim, to thy rest.” 

Now within the gate rejoice, 

Safe, and sealed, and bought, and blest. 
Safe—from all the lures of vice; 

Sealed—by signs the chosen know; 
Bought—by love, and life, the price; 
Blest—the mighty debt to owe! 

Holy pilgrim ! what for thee 
In a world like this remain ? 

From thy guarded breast shall flee 
Fear, and shame, and doubt, and pain. 
Fear—the hope of heaven shall fly; 

Shame—from glory’s view retire; 
Doubt—in certain rapture die ; 

Pain—in endless bliss expire. 

George Crabbe, 


Thomas A. Kempis. 

(De Imitatione Christi.) 

Turn with me from the city’s clamorous 
street, 

Where throng and push, passions, and lusts, 
and hate, 

And enter, through this age-browned, 
ivied gate, 

For many summers’ birds a sure retreat, 

The place of perfect peace. And here, most 
meet 

For meditation, where no idle prate 

Of the world’s ways may come, rest thee 
and wait. 

’Tis very quiet. Thou doth still Heaven 
entreat. 

With reverent feet, his face so worn, so fair, 

Walks one who bears the cross, who waits 
the crown. 

Tumult is past. In those calm eyes I see 

The image of the Master, Christ, alone, 


And from those patient lips I hear one 
prayer: 

“ Dear Lord, dear Lord, that I may be like 
thee! ” 

Richard Rogers Bowker. 

Nearer, my God, to Thee. 

Nearer, my God, to Thee, 

Nearer to Thee! 

E’en though it be a cross 
That raiseth me; • 

Still all my song shall be, 

Nearer, my God, to Thee, 

Nearer to Thee! 

Though like the wanderer, 

The sun gone down, 

Darkness be over me, 

My rest a stone ; 

Yet in my dreams I’d be 
Nearer, my God, to Thee, 

Nearer to Thee! 

There let the way appear 
Steps unto Heaven ; 

All that Thou send’st to me 
In mercy given; 

Angels to beckon me 
Nearer, my God, to Thee, 

Nearer to Thee! 

Then, with my waking thoughts 
Bright with Thy praise, 

Out of my stony griefs 
Bethel I’ll raise; 

So by my woes to be 
Nearer, my God, to Thee, 

Nearer to Thee! 

Or if on joyful wing 
Cleaving the sky, 

Sun, moon, and stars forgot, 
Upward I fly, 

Still all my song shall be, 

Nearer, my God, to Thee, 

Nearer to Thee! 

Sarah Flower Adams. 

Walking with God. 

Gen. v. 24. 

Oh for a closer walk with God, 

A calm and heavenly frame 1 





PSALMS AND HYMNS AND SPIRITUAL SONGS. 


58 5 


A light to shine upon the road 
That leads me to the Lamb! 

Where is the blessedness I knew 
When first I saw the Lord ? 

Where is the soul-refreshing view 
Of Jesus and His word ? 

What peaceful hours I once enjoy’d! 

How sweet their memory still! 

But they have left an aching void 
The world can never fill. 

Return, O holy Dove ! return, 

Sweet messenger of rest! 

I hate the sins that made Thee mourn, 
And drove Thee from my breast. 

The dearest idol I have known, 
Wliate’er that idol be, 

Help me to tear it from Thy throne, 
And worship only Thee! 

So shall my walk be close with God, 
Calm and serene my frame ; 

So purer light shall mark the road 
That leads me to the Lamb ! 

William Cowtek. 

Confirmation Hymn. 

Oh, happy day that fixed my choice 
On thee, my Saviour and my God! 

Well may this glowing heart rejoice, 

And tell its raptures all abroad. 

Oh, happy bond, that seals my vows 
To him who merits all my love! 

Let cheerful anthems fill his house, 

While to that sacred shrine I move. 

’Tis done, the great transaction’s done; 

I am my Lord’s and he is mine; 

He drew me, and I followed on, 

Charmed to confess the voice divine. 

Now rest my long-divided heart! 

Fixed on this blissful centre rest; 

Oh, who with earth would grudge to part, 
When called with angels to be blest? 

High Heaven, that heard the solemn vow, 
That vow renewed shall daily hear, 

Till in life’s latest hour I bow, 

And bless in death a bond so dear. 

PiJiLir Doddridge. 


The Inner Calm. 

Calm me, my God, and keep me calm, 
While these hot breezes blow ; 

Be like the night-dew’s cooling balm 
Upon earth’s fever’d brow ! 

Calm me, my God, and keep me calm, 

Soft resting on Thy breast; 

Soothe me with holy hymn and psalm, 
And bid my spirit rest. 

Calm me, my God, and keep me calm; 

Let Thine outstretched wing 
Be like the shade of Elim’s palm 
Beside her desert spring. 

Yes ; keep me calm, though loud and rude 
The sounds my ear that greet; 

Calm in the closet’s solitude, 

Calm in the bustling street; 

Calm in the hour of buoyant health. 

Calm in my hour of pain ; 

Calm in my poverty or wealth, 

Calm in my loss or gain ; 

Calm in the sufferance of^vrong, 

Like Him who bore my shame ; 

Calm ’mid the threatening, taunting throng 
Who hate Thy holy Name ; 

Calm when the great world’s news with 
power 

My listening spirit stir : 

Let not the tidings of the hour 
E’er find too fond an ear ; 

Calm as the ray of sun or star, 

Which storms assail in vain, 

Moving unruffled through earth’s war 
Th’ eternal calm to gain ! 

Horatius Bonar, 


Resign a tion. 

0 God ! whose thunder shakes the sky, 
Whose eye this atom-globe surveys, 
To Thee, my only rock, I fly,— 

Thy mercy in Thy justice praise. 

The mystic mazes of Thy will, 

The shadows of celestial night, 

Are past the power of human skill; 
But what the Eternal acts is right. 






586 


FIRESIDE ENCYCLOPAEDIA OF POETRY. 


Oh teach me, in the trying hour— 

When anguish swells the dewy tear— 

To still my sorrows, own Thy power, 

Thy goodness love, Thy justice fear. 

If in this bosom aught but Thee, 

Encroaching, sought a boundless sway, 

Omniscience could the danger see, 

And mercy look the cause away. 

Then why, my soul, dost thou complain— 
Why drooping seek the dark recess ? 

Shake off the melancholy chain ; 

For God created all to bless. 

But ah ! my breast is human still; 

The rising sigh, the falling tear, 

My languid vitals’ feeble rill, 

The sickness of my soul declare. 

But yet, with fortitude resign’d, 

I’ll thank the inflictor of the blow— 

Forbid the sigh, compose my mind, 

Nor let the gush of misery How. 

The gloomy mantle of the night, 

Which on my sinking spirit steals, 

Will vanish at tne morning light, 

Which God, my east, my sun, reveals. 

Thomas Chatterton. 


Resign a tion. 

Lord, it belongs not to my care 
Whether I die or live: 

To love and serve Thee is my share, 

And this Thy grace must give. 

If life be long, I will be glad, 

That I may long obey ; 

If short, yet why should I be sad 
To soar to endless day ? 

Christ leads me through no darker rooms 
Than He went through before; 

He that into God’s kingdom comes 
Must enter by His door. 

Come, Lord, when grace has made me 
meet 

Thy blessed face to see; 

For if Thy work on earth be sweet, 

What will Thy glory be? 

Then shall I end my sad complaints, 

And weary, sinful days; 


j And join with the triumphant saints, 
j That sing Jehovah’s praise. 

| My knowledge of that life is small, 

The eye of faith is dim ; 

: But ’tis enough that Christ knows all, 
And I shall be with Him. 

Richard Baxter. 

Thy Will be Done. 

My God and Father, while I stray 
Far from my home, on life’s rough way, 
Oh teach me from my heart to say, 

Thy will be done! 

Though dark my path and sad my lot. 
Let me be still and murmur not, 

Or breathe the prayer divinely taught, 
Thy will be done ! 

What though in lonely grief I sigh 
For friends beloved, no longer nigh, 
Submissive still would I reply, 

Thy will be done! 

Though Thou hast call’d me to resign 
What most I prized, it ne’er was mine ; 

I have but yielded what was Thine; 

Thy will be done ! 

Should grief or sickness waste away 
My life in premature decay, 

My Father! still I strive to say, 

Thy will be done ! 

Let but my fainting heart be blest 
With Thy sweet Spirit for its guest, 

My God, to Thee I leave the rest; 

Thy will be done! 

Renew my will from day to day ; 

Blend it with Thine ; and take away 
All that now makes it hard to say, 

Thy will be done! 

Then, when on earth I breathe no more 
The prayer, oft mix’d with tears before, 
I’ll sing upon a happier shore, 

Thy will be done! 

Charlotte Elliott. 

The Will of God. 

I worship thee, sweet Will of God 1 
And all Thy ways adore, 








PSALMS AND HYMNS AND SPIRITUAL SONGS.” 


587 


And.every day I live I seem 
To love Thee more and more. 

Thou wert the end, the blessed rule 
Of our Saviour’s toils and tears; 

Thou wert the passion of Ilis heart 
Those three-and-thirty years. 

And He hath breathed into my soul 
A special love of Thee, 

A love to lose my will in His, 

And by that loss be free. 

I love to see Thee bring to naught 
The plans of wily men; 

When simple hearts outwit the wise, 

Oh, Thou art loveliest then ! 

The headstrong world, it presses hard 
Upon the Church full oft, 

And then how easily Thou turn’st 
The hard ways into soft! 

I love to kiss each print where Thou 
Hast set Thine unseen feet: 

I cannot fear Thee, blessed Will! 

Thine empire is so sweet. 

When obstacles and trials seem 
Like prison-walls to be, 

I do the little I can do, 

And leave the rest to Thee. 

I know not what it is to doubt; 

My heart is ever gay; 

I run no risk, for come what will 
Thou always hast Thy way. 

I have no cares, O blessed Will! 

For all my cares are Thine; 

J live in triumph, Lord ; for Thou 
Hast made Thy triumphs mine. 

And when it seems no chance or change 
From grief can set me free, 

Hope finds its strength in helplessness, 
And gayly waits on Thee. 

Man’s weakness waiting upon God 
Its end can never miss, 

For men on earth no work can do 
More angel-like than this. 

Ride on, ride on, triumphantly, 

Thou glorious Will! ride on; 

Faith’s pilgrim sons behind Thee take 
The road that Thou hast gone. 

He always wins who sides with God, 

To him no chance is lost; 


God’s Will is sweetest to him when 
It triumphs at his cost. 

Ill that He blesses is our good, 

And unblest good is ill ; 

And all is right that seems most wrong, 
If it be His sweet Will! 

Frederick William Faber. 

Thy Will be Done. 

Father, I know that all my life 
Is portion’d out for me, 

And the changes that are sure to come 
I do not fear to see; 

But I ask Thee for a present mind, 
Intent on pleasing Thee. 

I ask Thee for a thoughtful love, 
Through constant watching wise, 

To meet the glad with joyful smiles. 
And wipe the weeping eyes ; 

And a heart at leisure from itself, 

To soothe and sympathize. 

I would not have the restless will 
That hurries to and fro ; 

Seeking for some great thing to do. 

Or secret thing to know: 

I would be treated as a child, 

And guided where I go. 

Wherever in the world I am, 

In whatsoe’er estate, 

I have a fellowship with hearts 
To keep and cultivate, 

And a work of lowly love to do, 

For the Lord on whom I wait. 

So I ask Thee for the daily strength 
To none that ask denied, 

And a mind to blend with outward life, 
While keeping at Thy side ; 

Content to fill a little space, 

If Thou be glorified. 

And if some things I do not ask 
In my cup of blessing be, 

I would have my spirit fill’d the more 
With grateful love to Thee ; 

More careful, not to serve Thee much. 
But to please Thee perfectly. 

There are briers besetting every path, 
That call for patient care ; 





588 


FIRESIDE ENCYCLOPEDIA OF POETRY. 


There is a cross in every lot, 

And an earnest need for prayer ; 

But a lowly heart, that leans on Thee, 

Is happy anywhere. 

In a service which Thy will appoints 
There are no bonds for me ; 

For my inmost heart is taught the Truth 
That makes Thy children free ; 

And a life of self-renouncing love 
Is a life of liberty. 

Anna Lastitia Waring. 


"Of such is the Kingdom of 
He A YEN.’’ 

I think when I read that sweet story of 
old, 

When Jesus was here among men, 

How he called little children as lambs to 
his fold; 

I should like to have been with them then. 

I wish that his hands had been placed on 
my head, 

That his arm had been thrown around 
me, 

And that I might have seen his kind look 
when he said, 

“Let the little ones come unto me.” 

Yet still to his footstool in prayer I may go, 

And ask for a share in his love; 

And if I thus earnestly seek him below, 

I shall see him and hear him above, 

In that beautiful place he has gone to pre¬ 
pare 

For all who are washed and forgiven; 

And many dear children shall be with him 
there, 

For of such is the kingdom of heaven. 

But thousands and thousands who wander 
and fall 

Never heard of that heavenly home; 

I wish they could know there is room for 
them all, 

And that Jesus had bid them to come. 

I long for the joy of that glorious time, 

The sweetest, the brightest, the best; 


When the dear little children of every 
clime 

Shall crowd to his arms and be blest. 

Jemima Thompson Luke. 


Just as I am. 

Just as I am, without one plea 
But that Thy Blood was shed for me, 

And that Thou bidd’st me come to Thee, 
0 Lamb of God, I come! 

Just as I am, and waiting not 
To rid my soul of one dark blot, 

To Thee, whose Blood can cleanse each 
spot, 

0 Lamb of God, I come ! 

Just as I am, though toss’d about 
With many a conflict, many a doubt, 
Fightings and fears within, without, 

0 Lamb of God, I come! 

Just as I am, poor, wretched, blind, 

Sight, riches, healing of the mind, 

Yea, all I need, in Thee to find, 

O Lamb of God, I come! 

Just as I am, Thou wilt receive, 

Wilt welcome, pardon, cleanse, relieve! 
Because Thy promise I believe, 

O Lamb of God, I come! 

Just as I am (Thy Love unknown 
Has broken every barrier down), 

Now, to be Thine, yea, Thine alone, 

O Lamb of God, I come! 

Just as I am, of that free love 
The breadth, length, depth, and height to 
prove, 

Here for a season, then above, 

O Lamb of God, I come! 

Charlotte Elliott. 

Hymn for Family Worship. 

O Lord, another day is flown ; 

And we, a lonely band, 

Are met once more before Thy throne 
To bless Thy fostering hand. 

And wilt Thou lend a listening ear 
To praises low as ours ? 







PSALMS AND HYMNS AND SPIRITUAL SONGS.” 


589 


Thou wilt! for Thou dost love to hear 
The song which meekness pours. 

And, Jesus, Thou Thy smiles wilt deign 
As we before Thee pray ; 

For Thou didst bless the infant train, 

And we are less than they. 

Oh let Thy grace perform its part, 

And let contention cease ; 

And shed abroad in every heart 
Thine everlasting peace! 

Thus chasten’d, cleansed, entirely Thine, 

A flock by Jesus led, 

The Sun of holiness shall shine 
In glory on our head. 

And Thou wilt turn our wandering feet, 
And Thou wilt bless our way, 

Till worlds shall fade, and faith shall greet 
The dawn of lasting day ! 

Henry Kirke White. 

Lead, Kindly light. 

Lead, kindly Light, amid th’ encircling 
gloom, 

Lead Thou me on ; 

The night is dark, and I am far from 
home; 

Lead Thou me on ; 

Keep Thou my feet; I do not ask to see 
The distant scene; one step enough for me. 

1 was not ever thus, nor pray’d that Thou 
Shouldst lead me on ; 

I loved to choose and see my path ; but 
now 

Lead Thou me on ! 

I loved the garish day, and, spite of fears, 
Pride ruled my will. Remember not past 
years! 

So long Thy power has blest me, sure it 
still 

Will lead me on 

O’er moor and fen, o’er crag and torrent, 
till 

The night is gone, 

And with the morn those angel faces smile 
Which I have loved long since, and lost 
a while! 

John Henry Newman. 


When Gathering Clouds 
around I View. 

When gathering clouds around I view, 
And days are dark and friends are few, 

On Him I lean, who not in vain 
Experienced every human pain. 

He sees my wants, allays my fears, 

And counts and treasures up my tears. 

If aught should tempt my soul to stray 
From heavenly wisdom’s narrow' way; 

To fly the good I would pursue, 

Or do the sin I would not do; 

Still He, who felt temptation’s power, 
Shall guard me in that dangerous hour. 

If wounded love my bosom swell, 

Deceived by those I prized too well, 

He shall his pitying aid bestow, 

Who felt on earth severer woe; 

At once betray’d, denied, or fled, 

By those who shared His daily bread. 

If vexing thoughts within me rise, 

And, sore dismay’d, my spirit dies; 

Still He, who once vouchsafed to bear 
The sickening anguish of despair, 

Shall sweetly soothe, shall gently dry, 

The throbbing heart, the streaming eye. 

When sorrowing o’er some stone I bend, 
Which covers what was once a friend, 

And from his voice, his hand, his smile, 
Divides me for a little while; 

Thou, Saviour, mark’s! the tears I shed, 
For Thou didst w r eep o’er Lazarus dead! 

And oh, when I have safely past 
Through every conflict but the last, 

Still, still unchanging, watch beside 
My bed of death, for Thou hast died! 

Then point to realms of cloudless day, 
And wipe the latest tear away ! 

Sir Robert Grant. 

Long did I Toil. 

Long did I toil, and knew' no earthly rest; 
Far did I rove, and found no certain 
home; 

At last I sought them iu His sheltering 
breast, 

Who opes His arms, and bids the weary 
come: 







FIRESIDE ENCYCLOPAEDIA OF POETRY. 


590 


With Him I found a home, a rest divine; 

And I since then am His, and He is mine. 

Yes! He is mine! and naught of earthly 
things, 

Not all the charms of pleasure, wealth, or 
power, 

The fame of heroes, or the pomp of kings, 

Could tempt me to forego His love an 
hour. 

Go, worthless world, I cry, with all that’s 
thine! 

Go ! I my Saviour’s am, and He is mine. 

The good I have is from His stores sup¬ 
plied ; 

The ill is only what He deems the best; 

He for my Friend, I’m rich with naught 
beside; 

And poor without Him, though of all 
possest: 

Changes may come; I take, or I resign ; 

Content, while I am His, while He is 
mine. 

Whate’er may change, in Him no change 
is seen; 

A glorious Sun, that wanes not nor de¬ 
clines ; 

Above the clouds and storms He walks 
serene, 

And sweetly on His people’s darkness 
shines: 

All may dej>art; I fret not, nor repine, 

While I my Saviour’s am, while He is 
mine. 

He stays me falling, lifts me up when 
down, 

Reclaims me wandering, guards from 
every foe; 

Plants on my worthless brow the victor’s 
crown; 

Which, in return, before His feet I 
throw, 

Grieved that I cannot better grace His 
shrine, 

Who deigns to own me His, as He is 
mine. 

While here, alas! I know but half His 
love, 

But half discern Him, and but half 
adore; 


But when I meet Him in the realms 
above, 

I hope to love Him better, praise Him 
more, 

And feel, and tell, amid the choir divine, 
How fully I am His, and He is mine. 

Henry Francis Lyte. 

Rise, my Soul, and Stretch thy 
Wings. 

Rise, my soul, and stretch thy wings, 
Thy better portion trace; 

Rise from transitory things 
Toward heaven, thy native place. 

Sun and moon and stars decay; 

Time shall soon this earth remove; 
Rise, my soul, and haste away 
To seats prepared above. 

Rivers to the ocean run, 

Nor stay in all their course; 

Fire ascending seeks the sun; 

Both speed them to their source: 

So my soul, derived from God, 

Pants to view His glorious face, 
Forward tends to His abode, 

To rest in His embrace. 

Fly me riches, fly me cares, 

Whilst I that coast explore; 

Flattering world, with all thy snares 
Solicit me no more! 

Pilgrims fix not here their home; 

Strangers tarry but a night; 

When the last dear morn is come, 
They’ll rise to joyful light. 

Cease, ye pilgrims, cease to mourn; 

Press onward to the prize; 

Soon our Saviour will return 
Triumphant in the skies. 

Yet a season, and you know' 

Happy entrance will be given, 

All our sorrows left below. 

And earth exchanged for heaven. 

.Robert Seagrave. 

How Kindly hast Thou led Mei 

Oh how kindly hast Thou led me, 
Heavenly Father, day by day! 

Found my dwelling, clothed and fed me, 
Furnish’d friends to cheer my way! 
Didst Thou bless me, didst Thou chasten. 
With Thy smile, or with Thy rod. 







PSALMS AND HYMNS AND SPIRITUAL SONGS. 


591 


Twas that still my step might hasten 
Homeward, heavenward, to my God ! 

Oh how slowly have I often 

Follow’d where Thy hand would draw! 
How Thy kindness fail’d to soften! 

How Thy chastening fail’d to awe ! 
Make me for Thy rest more ready 
As Thy path is longer trod; 

Keep me in Thy friendship steady, 

Till Thou call me home, my God! 

Thomas Or infield. 

Wrestling Jacob. 

Come, O thou Traveller unknown, 

Whom still I hold, but cannot see, 

My company before is gone, 

And I am left alone with Thee ; 

With Thee all night I mean to stay, 

And wrestle till the break of day. 

I need not tell Thee who I am, 

My misery or sin declare ; 

Thyself hast call’d me by my name ; 

Look on Thy hands, and read it there ! 
But Who, I ask Thee, Who art thou? 

Tell me Thy Name, and tell me now. 

In vain Thou strugglest to get free, 

I never will unloose my hold ; 

Art thou the Man that died for me? 

The secret of Thy love unfold. 
Wrestling, I will not let Thee go, 

Till I Thy Name, Thy Nature know. 

Wilt Thou not yet to me reveal 
Thy new, unutterable Name? 

Tell me, I still beseech Thee, tell; 

To know it now, resolved I am : 
Wrestling, I will not let Thee go, 

Till I Thy Name, Thy Nature know. 

’Tis all in vain to hold Thy tongue, 

Or touch the hollow of my thigh ; 
Though every sinew be unstrung, 

Out of my arms Thou shalt not fly : 
Wrestling, I will not let Thee go, 

Till I Thy Name, Thy Nature know. 

What though my shrinking flesh complain, 
And murmur to contend so long ? 

I rise superior to my pain ; 

When I am weak, then I am strong: 
And when my all of. strength shall fail 
I shall with the God-Man prevail. 


My strength is gone ; my nature dies ; 

1 sink beneath Thy weighty hand, 

Faint to revive, and fall to rise ; 

1 fall, and yet by faith I stand : 

I stand, and will not let Thee go, 

; Till I Thy Name, Thy Nature know. 

| Yield to me now, for I am weak, 

But confident in self-despair ; 

Speak to my heart, in blessings speak, 

Be conquer’d by my instant prayer! 
Speak, or Thou never hence shalt move, 
And tell me, if Thy Name is Love. 

’Tis Love! ’tis Love! Thou diedst for me! 

I hear Thy whisper in my heart! 

The morning breaks, the shadows flee ; 
Pure universal Love Thou art! 
i To me, to all, Thy bowels move ! 

Thy Nature, and Thy Name, is Love! 

My prayer hath power with God; the 
grace 

Unspeakable I now receive ; 

Through faith I see Thee face to face, 

I see Thee face to face and live : 

In vain I have not wept and strove; 

Thy Nature, and Thy Name, is Love. 

I know Thee, Saviour, who Thou art; 

Jesus, the feeble sinner’s Friend ! 

Nor wilt Thou with the night depart, 

But stay, and love me to the end! 

Thy mercies never shall remove, 

Thy Nature, and Thy Name, is Love! 

The Sun of Righteousness on me 

Hath rose, with healing in His wings; 
Wither’d my nature’s strength, from Thee 
My soul its life and succor brings; 

My help is all laid up above; 

Thy Nature, and Thy Name, is Love. 

Contented now upon my thigh 

I halt, till life’s short journey end ; 

All helplessness, all weakness, I 
On Thee alone for strength depend ; 

Nor have I power from Thee to move; 
Thy Nature, and Thy Name, is Love. 

Lame as I am, I take the prey, 

Hell, earth, and sin with ease o’er- 
come; 

I leap for joy, pursue my way, 

And as a bounding hart fly home! 










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FIRESIDE ENCYCLOPEDIA OF POETRY 


Through all eternity to prove, 

Thy Nature, and Thy Name, is Love! 

Charles Wesley. 


Whilst Thee I Seek. 

Whilst Thee I seek, protecting Power, 
Be my vain wishes still’d! 

And may this consecrated hour 
With better hopes be fill’d. 

Thy love the power of thought bestow’d: 
To Thee my thoughts would soar: 

Thy mercy o’er my life has flow’d, 

That mercy I adore. 

In each event of life, how clear 
Thy ruling hand I see! 

Each blessing to my soul more dear, 
Because conferr’d by Thee. 

In every joy that crowns my days, 

In every pain I bear, 

My heart shall find delight in praise, 

Or seek relief in prayer. 

When gladness wings my favor’d hour, 
Thy love my thoughts shall fill; 

Resign’d, when storms of sorrow lower, 
My soul shall meet Thy will. 

My lifted eye, without a tear, 

The gathering storms shall see ; 

My steadfast heart shall know no fear; 
That heart shall rest on Thee. 

Helen Maria Williams. 


The Right must Win. 

Oil, it is hard to work for God, 

To rise and take His part 

Upon this battle-field of earth, 

And not sometimes lose heart! 

He hides Himself so wondrously, 

As though there were no God ; 

He is least seen when all the powers 
Of ill are most abroad. 

Or He deserts us at the hour 
The fight is all but lost; 

And seems to leave us to ourselves 
Just when we need Him most. 


Yes, there is less to try our faith 
In our mysterious creed, 

Than in the godless look of earth 
In these our hours of need. 

Ill masters good, good seems to change 
To ill with greatest ease; 

And, worst of all, the good with good 
Is at cross-purposes. 

It is not so, but so it looks; 

And we lose courage then; 

And doubts will come if God hath kept 
His promises to men. 

Ah ! God is other than we think ; 

His ways are far above, 

Far beyond reason’s height, and reach’d 
Only by childlike love. 

The look, the fashion of God’s ways 
Love’s lifelong study are; 

She can be bold, and guess and act, 
When Reason would not dare. 

She has a prudence of her own; 

Her step is firm and free; 

Yet there is cautious science too 
In her simplicity. 

Workman of God! oh lose not heart, 
But learn what God is like; 

And in the darkest battle-field 
Thou slialt know where to strike. 

Thrice blessed is he to whom is given 
The instinct that can tell 

That God is on the field when He 
Is most invisible. 

Blest too is he who can divine 
Where real right doth lie, 

And dares to take the side that seems 
Wrong to man’s blindfold eye. 

Then learn to scorn the praise of men, 
And learn to lose with God; 

For Jesus won the world through shame. 
And beckons thee His road. 

God’s glory is a wondrous thing, 

Most strange in all its ways, 

And, of all things on earth, least like 
What men agree to praise. 






“PSALMS AND HYMNS AND SPIRITUAL SONGS. 


593 


A? He can endless glory weave 
From what men reckon shame, 

In His own world He is content 
To play a losing game. 

Muse on His justice, downcast soul! 

Muse and take better heart; 

Back with thine angel to the field, 
And bravely do thy part! 

God’s justice is a bed where we 
Our anxious hearts may lay, 

And, weary with ourselves, may sleep 
Our discontent away. 

For right is right, since God is God; 

And right the day must win ; 

To doubt would be disloyalty, 

To falter would be sin ! 

Frederick William Faber. 


Joy and Peace in Believing. 

Sometimes a light surprises 
The Christian while he sings ; 

It is the Lord, who rises 
With healing in His wings : 

When comforts are declining, 

He grants the soul again 

A season of clear shining 
To cheer it after rain. 

In holy contemplation 
We sweetly then pursue 

The theme of God’s salvation, 

And find it ever new: 

Set free from present sorrow, 

We cheerfully can say, 

E’en let the unknown to-morrow 
Bring with it what it may. 

It can bring with it nothing, 

But He will bear us through ; 

Who gives the lilies clothing 
Will clothe His people too; 

Beneath the spreading heavens 
No creature but is fed ; 

And He, who feeds the ravens, 

Will give His children bread. 

Though vine nor fig tree neither 
Their wonted fruit shall bear; 

Though all the field should wither, 
Nor flocks nor herds be there; 

38 


Yet, God the same abiding, 

His praise shall tune my voice ; 

For, while in Him confiding, 

I cannot but rejoice. 

William Cowper. 


Guide me, 0 Thou Great Jeho¬ 
vah ! 

Guide me, O Thou great Jehovah! 

Pilgrim through this barren land; 

I am weak, but Thou art mighty, 

Hold me with Thy powerful hand. 
Bread of Heaven! Bread of Hea¬ 
ven ! 

Feed me now and evermore! 

Open now the crystal fountain, 

Whence the healing streams do flow; 
Let the fiery cloudy pillar 
Lead me all my journey through ; 
Strong Deliverer! strong Deliverer! 
Be thou still my Strength and Shield! 

When I tread the verge of Jordan, 

Bid my anxious fears subside; 

Death of deaths, and hell’s destruction, 
Land me safe on Canaan’s side ; 

Songs of praises, songs of praises, 

I will ever give to Thee! 

Musing on my habitation, 

Musing on my heavenly home, 

Fills my soul with holy longing; 

Come, my Jesus, quickly come. 

Vanity is all I see; 

Lord, I long to be with thee ! 

William Williams, 

Hymn. 

The Spirit in our hearts, 

Is whispering, “Sinner, come;” 

The bride, the Church of Christ, proclaims 
To all his children, “Come!” 

Let him that hearetli say, 

To all about him, “ Come:” 

Let him that thirsts for righteousness 
To Christ, the fountain, cornel 

Yes, whosoever will, 

Oh, let him freely come, 







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FIRESIDE ENCYCLOPAEDIA OF POETRY. 


And freely drink the stream of life; 

’Tis Jesus bids him come. 

Lo! Jesus, who invites, 

"i Declares, “ I quickly come 
Lord, even so; I wait thine hour; 

O blest Eedeemer, come! 

Henry Ustick Onderdonk. 

I Love Thy King doji, lord. 

I LOVE Thy kingdom, Lord, 

The house of Thine abode, 

The Church our blest Eedeemer saved 
With His own precious blood. 

I love Thy Church, O God ! 

Her walls before Thee stand, 

Dear as the apple of Thine eye, 

And graven on Thy hand. 

If e’er to bless Thy sons, 

My voice, or hands, deny, 

These hands let useful skill forsake, 
This voice in silence die. 

If e’er my heart forget 
Her welfare or her woe, 

Let every joy this heart forsake, 

And every grief o’erflow. 

For her my tears shall fall; 

For her my prayers ascend ; 

To her my cares and toils be given, 
Till toils and cares shall end. 

Beyond my highest joy 
I prize her heavenly ways, 

Her sweet communion, solemn vows, 
Her hymns of love and praise. 

I Jesus, Thou Friend divine, 

Our Saviour and our King, 

Thy hand from every snare and foe 
Shall great deliverance bring. 

Sure as Thy truth shall last, 

To Zion shall be given 
lire brightest glories earth can yield, 
And brighter bliss of Heaven. 

Timothy Dwight. 

(From the Latin of St. Ambrose.) 


“ Dum Vivimus Viva must 

“ Live while you live!” the epicure would 

say, 

“ And seize the pleasures of the present 
day!” 

“ Live while you live!” the sacred Preacher 
cries, 

“ And give to God each moment as it 
flies!” 

Lord, in my view let both united be: 

I live in pleasure while I live to Thee. 

Philip Doddridge. 


Children of the Heavenly 
King. 

Children of the Heavenly King, 
As ye journey, sweetly sing ; 

Sing your Saviour’s worthy praise, 
Glorious in His works and ways ! 

We are travelling home to God, 

In the way the Fathers trod ; 

They are happy now ; and we 
Soon their happiness shall see. 

O ye banish’d seed, be glad ! 

Christ our Advocate is made ; 

Us to save, our flesh assumes ; 
Brother to our souls becomes. 

Shout, ye little flock, and blest! 
You on Jesus’ Throne shall rest; 
There your seat is now prepared, 
There your kingdom and reward. 

Lift your eyes, ye sons of Light! 
Zion’s city is in sight: 

There our endless home shall be, 
There our Lord we soon shall se* 

Fear not, brethren ; joyful stand 
On the borders of your land ; 

Jesus Christ, your Father’s Son, 
Bids you undismay’d go on. 

Lord ! obediently we go, 

Gladly leaving all below : 

Only Thou our leader be, 

And we still will follow TlieeJ 

Seal our love, our labors end; 

Let us to Thy bliss ascend; 








“PSALMS AND HYMNS AND SPIRITUAL SONGS.” 


59 t 


Let us to Thy kingdom come; 

Lord ! we iong to be at home. 

John Cennick. 

rt 

Early Piety. 

By cool Siloam’s shady rill 
How sweet the lily grows! 

How sweet the breath beneath the hill 
Of Sharon’s dewy rose! 

Lo! such the child whose early feet 
The paths of peace have trod, 

Whose secret heart with influence sweet 
Is upward drawn to God. 

By cool Siloam’s shady rill 
The lily must decay; 

The rose that blooms beneath the hill 
Must shortly hide away; 

And soon, too soon, the wintry hour 
Of man’s niaturer age 

Will shake the soul with sorrow’s power, 
And stormy passion’s rage. 

O Thou whose infant feet were found 
Within Thy Father’s shrine, 

Whose years with changeless virtue crown’d 
Were all alike divine: 

Dependent on Thy bounteous breath, 

We seek Thy grace alone 

In childhood, manhood, age, and death, 

To keep us still Thine own. 

Reginald Heber. 


0 Happy Soul, that Lives on 
HIGH! 

O happy soul, that lives on high, 
While men lie grovelling here! 

His hopes are fix’d above the sky, 

And faith forbids his fear. 

His conscience knows no secret stings, 
While peace and joy combine 

To form a life whose holy springs 
Are hidden and divine. 

He waits in secret on his God, 

His God in secret sees ; 

Let earth be all in arms abroad, 

He dwells in heavenly peace. 

His pleasures rise from things unseen, 
Beyond this world and time, 


Where neither eyes nor ears have been, 
Nor thoughts of sinners climb. 

He wants no pomp, nor royal throne, 
To raise his figure here; 

Content and pleased to live unknown. 
Till Christ, his Life, appear. 

He looks to heaven’s eternal hill, 

To meet that glorious day, 

And patient waits his Saviour’s will, 

To fetch his soul away. 

Isaac Waits. 

Heavenly Wisdom. 

Oh, happy is the man who hears 
Instruction’s warning voice, 

And who celestial Wisdom makes 
His early, only choice. 

For she has treasures greater far 
Than east or west unfold, 

And her reward is more secure 
Than is the gain of gold. 

In her right hand she holds to view 
A length of happy years, 

And in her left, the prize of fame 
And honor bright appears. 

She guides the young, with innocence 
In pleasure’s path to tread ; 

A crown of glory she bestows 
Upon the hoary head. 

According as her labors rise, 

So her rewards increase; 

Her ways are ways of pleasantness, 
And all her paths are peace. 

John Logan. 


The Heart’s Song. 

In the silent midnight watches, 

List—thy bosom door! 

How it knocketh, knocketh, knocketh, 
Knocketh evermore! 

Say not ’tis thy pulses beating; 

’Tis thy heart of sin : 

’Tis thy Saviour knocks, and crieth, 

Rise and let Me in ! 

Death comes down with reckless footstep 
To the hall and hut; 







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FIRESIDE ENCYCLOPAEDIA OF POETRY. 


Think you Death will stand a-knocking 
Where the door is shut? 

Jesus waiteth—waiteth—waiteth; 

But thy door is fast! 

Grieved, away thy Saviour goeth : 

Death breaks in at last. 

Then ’tis thine to stand entreating 
Christ to let thee in : 

At the gate of heaven beating, 

Wailing for thy sin. 

Nay, alas ! thou foolish virgin, 

Hast thou then forgot, 

Jesus waited long to know thee, 

But He knows thee not! 

Arthur Cleveland Coxe. 


Delight in God Only. 

I love, and have some cause to love, the 
earth— 

She is my Maker’s creature, therefore, 
good. 

She is my mother, for she gave me birth; 

She is my tender nurse, she gives me 
food: 

But what’s a creature, Lord, compared with 
Thee? 

Or what’s my mother or my nurse to me ? 

I love the air—her dainty sweets refresh 

My drooping soul, and to new sweets in¬ 
vite me; 

Her shrill-mouth’d choir sustain me with 
their flesh, 

And with their polyphonian notes de¬ 
light me: 

But what’s the air, or all the sweets that 
she 

Can bless my soul withal, compared to 
Thee? 

I love the sea—she is my fellow-creature, 

My careful purveyor; she provides me 
store; 

She walls me round; she makes my diet 
greater; 

She wafts my treasure from a foreign 
shore: 

But, Lord of oceans, when compared with 
Thee, 

What is the ocean or her wealth to me? 


To Heaven’s high city I direct my jour¬ 
ney, 

Whose spangled suburbs entertain mine 
eye— 

Mine eye, by contemplation’s great at¬ 
torney, 

Transcends the crystal pavement of the 
sky: 

But what is Heaven, great God, compared 
to Thee? 

Without thy presence, Heaven’s no Heaven 
to me. 

Without Thy presence, earth gives no re¬ 
fection ; 

Without Thy presence, sea affords no 
treasure; 

Without Thy presence, air’s a rank infec¬ 
tion ; 

Without Thy presence, Heaven itself’s 
no pleasure: 

If not possess’d, if not enjoy’d in Thee, 

What’s earth, or sea, or air, or Heaven to 
me? 

The highest honors that the world can 
boast 

Are subjects far too low for my desire, 

The brightest beams of glory are, at 
most, 

But dying sparkles of Thy living fire ; 

The proudest flames that earth can kindle 
be 

But nightly glow-worms if compared to 
Thee. 

Without Thy presence, wealth is bags of 
cares; 

Wisdom but folly; joy, disquiet sad¬ 
ness ; 

Friendship is treason, and delights are 
snares; 

Pleasure’s but pain, and mirth but pleas¬ 
ing madness— 

Without Thee, Lord, things be not what 
they be, 

Nor have their being, when compared with 
Thee. 

In having all things, and not Thee, what 
have I? 

Not having Thee, what have my labors 
got? 








PSALMS AND HYMNS AND SPIRITUAL SONGS: 


59 / 


Let me enjoy but Thee, what further crave 

I? 

And having Thee alone, what have I 
not? 

i wish nor sea, nor land, nor would I be 
Possess’d of Heaven, Heaven unpossess’d 
of Thee! 

Francis Quarles. 

The Star of Bethlehem. 

When marshall’d on the nightly plain, 
The glittering host bestud the sky; 

One star alone, of all the train, 

Can fix the sinner’s wandering eye. 

Hark ! hark ! to God the chorus breaks, 

From every host, from every gem; 

But one alone the Saviour speaks, 

It is the Star of Bethlehem. 

Once on the raging seas I rode, 

The storm was loud—the night was dark, 
The ocean yawn’d—and rudely blow’d 
The wind that toss’d my foundering 
bark. 

Deep horror Ihen my vitals froze, 
Death-struck, I ceased the tide to stem; 
When suddenly a star arose, 

It was the Star of Bethlehem. 

It was my guide, my light, my all, 

It bade my dark forebodings cease; 

And through the storm and dangers’ thrall 
It led me to the port of peace. 

Now safely moor’d—my perils o’er, 

I’ll sing, first in night’s diadem, 

For ever and for evermore, 

The Star—the Star of Bethlehem ! 

Henry Kirke White. 

I am the Good Shepherds 
Saviour ! like a shepherd lead us; 

Much we need thy tender care; 

In thy pleasant pastures feed us, 

For our use thy folds prepare: 

Blessed Jesus! 

Thou hast bought us, thine we are. 
We are thine; do thou befriend us, 

Be the guardian of our way; 


Keep thy flock, from sin defend us, 

Seek us when we go astray: 

Blessed Jesus! 

Hear young children when they pray. 

Thou hast promised to receive us, 

Poor and sinful though we be ; 

Thou hast mercy to relieve us, 

Grace to cleanse, and power to free: 

Blessed Jesus! 

Let us early turn to thee. 

Early let us seek thy favor, 

Early let us do thy will; 

Holy Lord, our only Saviour! 

With thy grace our bosom fill: 

Blessed Jesus! 

Thou hast loved us, love us still. 

Dorothy Ann Thrupp. 

Art thou Weary ? 

Art thou weary, art thou languid, 

Art thou sore distress’d? 

“Come to Me,” saith One, “ and coming. 
Be at rest.” 

Hath He marks to lead me to Him, 

If He be my Guide? 

“ In His feet and hands are wound-prints, 
And His side.” 

Is there diadem, as Monarch, 

That His brow adorns ? 

“Yea, a crown, in very surety, 

But of thorns.” 

If I find Him, if I follow, 

What His guerdon here ? 

“ Many a sorrow, many a labor, 

Many a tear.” 

If I still hold closely to Him, 

What hath He at last? 

“ Sorrow vanquish’d, labor ended, 

Jordan pass’d.” 

If I ask Him to receive me, 

Will He say me nay ? 

“ Not till earth, and not till heaven 
Pass away.” 





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FIRESIDE ENCYCLOPEDIA OF POETRY. 


Finding, following, keeping, struggling, 

Is He sure to bless ? 

“ Saints, apostles, prophets, martyrs, 
Answer, Yes.” 

John Mason Neale. 

(Translation from St. Stephen the Sabaite.) 

Up-hill. 

Does the road wind up-hill all the way ? 

Yes, to the very end. 

Will the day’s journey take the whole long 
day. 

From morn to night, my friend. 

But is there for the night a resting-place? 

A roof for when the slow dark hours 
begin. 

May not the darkness hide it from my 
face? 

You cannot miss that inn. 

Shall I meet other wayfarers at night ? 

Those who have gone before. 

Then must I knock, or call when just in 
sight? 

They will not keep you standing at that 
door. 

Shall I find comfort, travel-sore and weak? 

Of la bor you shall find the sum. 

Will there be beds for me and all who 
seek? 

Yes, beds for all who come. 

Christina Georgina Rossetti. 


Nothing but Leaves. 

‘He found nothing thereon but leaves.”—Matt. chap, 
xxi. v. 19. 

Nothing but leaves ; the spirit grieves 
Over a wasted life ; 

3in committed wdiile conscience slept, 
Promises made but never kept, 

Hatred, battle, and strife ; 

Nothing but leaves ! 

Nothing but leaves ; uo garner’d sheaves 
Of life’s fair, ripen’d grain ; 

Words, idle words, for earnest deeds; 

We sow our seeds—lo ! tares and weeds; 
We reap with toil and pain 
Nothing but leaves ! 


] Nothing but leaves ; memory weaves 
No veil to screen the past: 

As we retrace our weary way, 

Counting each lost and misspent day— 
We find, sadly, at last, 

Nothing bxd leaves ! 

And shall we meet the Master so, 
Bearing our wither’d leaves ? 

The Saviour looks for perfect fruit,— 

We stand before him, humbled, mute ; 
Waiting the words he breathes,— 

“ Nothing but leaves /” 

Lucy Evelina Akekman. 


The Pilgrimage. 

Give me my scallop-shell of quiet, 

My staff of faith to walk upon ; 

My scrip of joy, immortal diet; 

My bottle of salvation ; 

My gown of glory, hope’s true gauge, 

And thus I’ll take my pilgrimage ! 

Blood must be my body’s balmer, 

No other balm will there be given ; 
Whilst my soul, like quiet palmer, 
Travelleth toward the land of Heaven • 
Over the silver mountains 
Where spring the nectar fountains : 

There will I kiss the bowl of bliss. 

And drink mine everlasting fill 
Upon every milken hill. 

My soul will be a-dry before, 

But after, it will thirst no more. 

Then by that happy, blissful day, 

More peaceful pilgrims I shall see. 

That have cast off their rags of clay, 

And walk apparell’d fresh like me. 

I’ll take them first to quench their thirst. 
And taste of nectar’s suckets 
At those clear wells where sweetne;:: 
dwells 

Drawn up by saints in crystal buckets. 
And when our bottles and all we 
Are fill’d with immortality, 

Then the blest paths we’ll travel, 

Strew’d with rubies thick as gravel,— 
Ceilings of diamonds, sapphire floors, 
High walls of coral, and pearly bowers. 
From thence to heaven’s bribeless hall, 
Where no corrupted voices brawl; 








“PSALMS AND HYMNS AND SPIRITUAL SONGS: 


599 


No conscience molten into gold, 

No forged accuser, bought or sold, 

No cause deferr’d, no vain-spent journey, 
For there Christ is the King’s Attorney ; 
Who pleads for all without degrees, 

And He hath angels, but no fees ; 

And when the grand twelve million jury 
Of our sins, with direful fury, 

’Gainst our souls black verdicts give, 
Christ pleads His death, and then we live. 
Be thou my speaker, taintless pleader, 
Unblotted lawyer, true proceeder ! 

Thou giv’st salvation even for alms,—■ 

Not with a bribed lawyer’s palms. 

And this is mine eternal plea 

To Him that made heaven, earth and sea, 

That since my flesh must die so soon, 

And want a head to dine next noon, 

Just at the stroke when my veins start and 
spread, 

Set on my soul an everlasting head: 

Then am I, like a palmer, fit 
To tread those blest paths which before I 
writ. 

Of death and judgment, heaven and hell, 
Who oft doth think, must needs die well. 

Sik Walter Raleigh. 


The Flower. 

How fresh, O Lord, how sweet and 
clean 

Are thy returns! e’en as the flowers in 
spring— 

To which, besides their own demean, 
The late-past frosts tributes of pleasure 
bring. 

Grief melts away 
Like snow in May, 

As if there were no such cold thing. 

Who would have thought my shriveil’d 
heart 

Could have recovered greenness? It was 
gone 

Quite underground ; as flowers depart 
To see their mother-root when they have 
blowm, 

Where they together, 

All the hard weather, 

Dead to the world, keep house unknown. 


These are Thy wonders, Lord of power: 
Killing and quick’ning, bringing down to 
hell 

And up to heaven in an hour, 

Making a chiming of a passing-bell. 

We say amiss, 

This or that is— 

Thy word is all, if we could spell. 

Oh, that I once past changing were— 
Fast in Thy paradise, where no flower can 
wither! 

Many a spring I shoot up fair, 
Offering at heaven, growing and groaning 
thither; 

Nor doth my flower 
Want a spring-shower, 

My sins and I joining together. 

But, while I grow in a straight line, 
Still upward bent, as if heaven were mine 
own, 

Thy anger comes, and I decline; 
What frost to that? what pole is not the 
zone 

Where all things burn, 

When Thou dost turn, 

And the least frown of Thine is shown? 

And now in age I bud again— 

After so many deaths I live and write; 

I once more smell the dew and rain, 
And relish versing; O my only light, 

It cannot be 
That I am he 

On whom Thy tempests fell all night! 

These are Thy wonders, Lord of love— 
To make us see we are but flowers that 
glide; 

Which when w’e once can find and 
prove, 

Thou hast a garden for us where to bide. 
Who w r ould be more, 

Swelling through store, 

Forfeit their paradise by their pride. 

George Herbert. 

Jesu, my Strength, my hope 

Jesu, my strength, my hope, 

On Thee I cast my care, 

With humble confidence look up, 

And know Thou hear’st my prayer 








GOO 


FIRESIDE ENCYCLOPAEDIA OF POETRY. 


Give me on thee to wait 
Till I can all things do, 

On Thee, Almighty to create, 

Almighty to renew I 
I rest upon Thy word ; 

The promise is for me; 

My succor and salvation, Lord, 

Shall surely come from Thee. 

But let me still abide, 

Nor from my hope remove, 

Till Thou my patient spirit guide 
Into thy perfect love! 

I want a sober mind, 

A self-renouncing will, 

That tramples down and casts behind 
The baits of pleasing ill: 

A soul inured to pain, 

To hardship, grief, and loss; 

Bold to take up, firm to sustain, 

The consecrated cross. 

I want a godly fear, 

A quick discerning eye, 

That looks to Thee when sin is near, 
And sees the tempter fly; 

A spirit still prepared, 

And arm’d with jealous care, 

For ever standing on its guard, 

And watching unto prayer. 

I want a heart to pray, 

To pray and never cease, 

Never to murmur at Thy stay, 

Or wish my sufferings less; 

This blessing, above all, 

Always to pray, I want, 

Out of the deep on Thee to call, 

And never, never faint. 

I want a true regard, 

A single, steady aim, 

Unmoved by threat’ning or reward, 

To Thee and Thy great name; 

A jealous, just concern 
For Thine immortal praise; 

A pure desire that all may learn 
And glorify Thy grace. 

I want with all my heart, 

Thy pleasure to fulfil, 

To know myself, and what Thou art, 
And what Thy perfect will. 

I want I know not what; 

I want my wants to see; 

I want—alas, what want I not, 

When Thou art not in me? 

Charles Wesley. 


Missionary hymn. 

From Greenland’s icy mountains, 
From India’s coral strand, 

Where Afric’s sunny fountains 
Roll down their golden sand; 

From many an ancient river, 

From many a palmy plain, 

They call us to deliver 
Their land from error’s chain. 

What though the spicy breezes 
Blow soft o’er Ceylon’s isle; 

Though every prospect pleases, 

And only man is vile; 

In vain with lavish kindness 
The gifts of God are strown; 

The heathen in his blindness 
Bows down to wood and stone. 

Can we, whose souls are lighted 
With wisdom from on high, 

Can we to men benighted 
The lamp of life deny ? 

Salvation ! O salvation ! 

The joyful sound proclaim, 

Till each remotest nation 
Has learnt Messiah’s Name. 

Waft, waft, ye winds, His story, 

And you, ye waters, roll, 

Till like a sea of glory 

It spreads from pole to pole; 

Till o’er our ransom’d nature 
The Lamb for sinners slain, 
Redeemer, King, Creator, 

In bliss returns to reign. 

Reginald Heber. 

The Burial of Moses. 

“ And he buried him iu a valley in the land of Moab, 
over against Beth-peor; but no man knoweth of his 
sepulchre unto this day.” 

By Nebo’s lonely mountain, 

On this side Jordan’s wave, 

In a vale in the land of Moah 
There lies a lonely grave. 

And no man knows that sepulchre, 

And no man saw it e’er, 

For the angels of God upturn’d the sod 
And laid the dead man there. 

That was the grandest funeral 
That ever pass’d on earth ; 

But no man heard the trampling, 

Or saw the train go forth — 

Noiselessly as the daylight 

Comes back when night is done, 

And the crimson streak on ocean’s cheek 
Grows into the great sun. 







PSALMS AND HYMNS AND SPIRITUAL SONGS.” 


GO! 


Noiselessly as the spring-time 
Her crown of verdure weaves, 

And all the trees on all the hills 
Open their thousand leaves ; 

So without sound of music, 

Or voice of them that wept, 

Silently down from the mountain’s crown 
The great procession swept. 

Perchance the bald old eagle 
On gray Beth-peor’s height, 

Out of his lonely eyrie 

Look’d on the wondrous sight; 
Perchance the lion stalking, 

Still shuns that hallow’d spot, 

For beast and bird have seen and heard 
That which man knoweth not. 

But when the warrior dieth, 

His comrades in the war, 

With arms reversed and muffled drum, 
Follow his funeral car; 

They show the banners taken, 

They tell his battles won, 

And after him lead his masterless steed, 
While peals the minute gun. 

Amid the noblest of the land 
We lay the sage to rest, 

And give the bard an honor’d place, 

With costly marble drest, 

In the great minster transept 
Where lights like glories fall, 

And the organ rings, and the sweet choir 
sings 

Along the emblazon’d wall. 

This was the truest warrior 
That ever buckled sword, 

This the most gifted poet 
That ever breathed a word; 

And never earth’s philosopher 
Traced, with his golden pen, 

On the deathless page, truths half so sage 
As he wrote down for men. 

And had he not high honor,— 

The hillside for a pall, 

To lie in state while angels wait 
With stars for tapers tall, 


And the dark rock-pines like tossing 
plumes, 

Over his bier to wave, 

And God’s own hand, in that lonely land, 
To lay him in the grave? 

In that strange grave without a name, 
Whence his uncoffin’d clay 
Shall break again, O wondrous thought! 

Before the judgment day, 

And stand with glory wrapt around 
On the hills he never trod, 

And speak of the strife that won our life 
With the Incarnate Son of God. 

O lonely grave in Moab’s land ! 

O dark Beth-peor’s hill! 

Speak to these curious hearts of ours, 

And teach them to be still. 

God hath His mysteries of grace, 

Ways that we cannot tell; 

He hides them deep, like the hidden sleep 
Of him He loved so well. 

Cecil Frances Alexander. 

The Ninety and Nine. 

There were ninety and nine that safely 
lay 

In the shelter of the fold, 

But one was out on the hills away, 

Far off from the gates of gold— 

Away on the mountains wild and bare, 
Away from the tender Shepherd’s care. 

“ Lord, Thou hast here Thy ninety and 
nine; 

Are they not enough for Thee?” 

But the Shepherd made answer: “’Tisof 
mine 

Has wander’d away from me ; 

And although the road be rough and steep, 
I go to the desert to find my sheep.” 

But none of the ransom’d ever knew 
How deep were the waters cross’d ; 

Nor how dark was the night that the Lord 
pass’d through 

Ere He found His sheep that was lost. 
Out in the desert He heard its cry— 

Sick and helpless, and ready to die. 




602 


FIRESIDE ENCYCLOPAEDIA OF POETRY 


“ Lord, whence are those blood-drops all 
the way 

That mark out the mountain’s track ?” 

“ They were shed for one who had gone 
astray 

Ere the Shepherd could bring him ! 
back.” 

“ Lord, whence are Thy hands so rent and 
torn ?” 

“ They are pierced to-night by many a 
thorn.” 

But all thro’ the mountains, thunder-riven, j 
And up from the rocky steep, 

There rose a cry to the gate of heaven, 

“ Rejoice ! I have found My sheep!” 

And the angels echo’d around the throne, 

“Rejoice, for the Lord brings back His 
own!” 

Elizabeth C. Clephane. 


Retirement. 

Far from the world, O Lord, I flee, 
From strife and tumult far; 

From scenes where Satan wages still 
His most successful war. 

The calm retreat, the silent shade, 

With prayer and praise agree, 

And seem by Thy sweet bounty made 
For those who follow Thee. 

There, if Thy Spirit touch the soul, 

And grace her mean abode, 

Oh, with what peace, and joy, and love, 
She communes with her God! 

There, like the nightingale, she pours 
Her solitary lays, 

Nor asks a witness of her song, 

Nor thirsts for human praise. 

Author and Guardian of my life, 

Sweet Source of light divine, 

And, all harmonious names in one, 

My Saviour! Thou art mine! 

What thanks I owe Thee, and what love, 
A boundless, endless store, 

Shall echo through the realms above 
When time shall be no more ! 

William Cowper. 


Asleep in Jesus. 

Asleep in Jesus! blessed sleep, 

From which none ever wakes to weep, 

A calm and undisturbed repose, 
Unbroken by the last of foes! 

Asleep in Jesus! oh, how sweet 
To be for such a slumber meet! 

With holy confidence to sing 

That Death hath lost his venomed sting! 

Asleep in Jesus! peaceful rest, 

Whose waking is supremely blest; 

No fear, no woe shall dim that hour 
That manifests the Saviour’s power. 

Asleep in Jesus! oh for me 
May such a blissful refuge be! 

Securely shall my ashes lie, 

Waiting the summons from on high. 

Asleep in Jesus! time nor space 
Debars this precious “hiding-place;” 

On Indian plains, or Lapland snows, 
Believers find the same repose. 

Asleep in Jesus! far from thee 
Thy kindred and their graves may be; 
But thine is still a blessed sleep, 

From which none ever wakes to weep! 

Margaret Mackay. 

When our Heads are Bowed 
with Woe. 

When our heads are bow’d with woe, 
When our bitter tears o’erflow, 

When we mourn the lost, the dear, 
Gracious Son of Mary, hear. 

Thou our throbbing flesh hast worn, 
Thou our mortals griefs hast borne, 
Thou hast shed the human tear; 
Gracious Son of Mary, hear. 

When the sullen death-bell tolls 
For our own departed souls, 

When our final doom is near, 

Gracious Son of Mary, hear. 

Thou hast bow’d the dying head, 

Thou the blood of life hast shed, 

Thou hast fill’d a mortal bier; 

Gracious Son of Mary, hear. 






PSALMS AND HYMNS AND SPIRITUAL SONGS: 


603 


When the heart is sad within 
With the thought of all its sin, 

When the spirit shrinks with fear, 
Gracious Son of Mary, hear. 

Thou the shame, the grief, hast known, 
Though the sins were not Thine own; 
Thou hast deign’d their load to hear; 
Gracious Son of Mary, hear. 

Henry Hart Milman. 

PSALM CXXI. 

Up to the hills I lift mine eyes, 

The eternal hills beyond the skies ; 

Thence all her help my soul derives, 

There my Almighty Refuge lives. 

He lives, the everlasting God, 

That built the world, that spread the flood; 
The heavens with all their hosts he made, 
And the dark regions of the dead. 

He guides our feet, He guards our way ; 
His morning smiles bless all the day ; 

He spreads the evening veil, and keeps 
The silent hours while Israel sleeps. 

Israel, a name divinely blest, 

May rise secure, securely rest; 

Thy holy Guardian’s wakeful eyes 
Admit no slumber nor surprise. 

No sun shall smite thy head by day, 

Nor the pale moon with sickly ray 
Shall blast thy couch ; no baleful star 
Dart his malignant tire so far. 

Should earth and hell with malice burn, 
Still thou shalt go, and still return, 

Safe in the Lord ; His heavenly care 
Defends thy life from every snare. 

On thee foul spirits have no power ; 

And, in thy last departing hour, 

Angels, that trace the airy road, 

Shall bear thee homeward to thy God. 

Isaac Watts. 


A LANCASHIRE I)OXOLOGY. 

“Praise God from whom all blessings 
flow.” 

Praise Him who sendeth joy and woe. 


The Lord who takes, — the Lord who 
gives,— 

Oh, praise Him, all that dies and lives. 

He opens and He shuts His hand, 

But why, we cannot understand: 

Pours and dries up His mercies’ flood, 

And yet is still All-perfect Good. 

We fathom not the mighty plan, 

The mystery of God and man ; 

We women, when afflictions come, 

We only suffer and are dumb. 

And when, the tempest passing by, 

He gleams out, sunlike, through the sky, 
We look up, and, through black clouds 
riven, 

We recognize the smile of Heaven. 

Ours is no wisdom of the wise, 

We have no deep philosophies: 

Childlike, we take both kiss and rod, 

For he who loveth knoweth God. 

Dinah Maria Muloch Craik. 

The God of Abraham Praise. 

The God of Abraham praise, 

Who reigns enthroned above, 
Ancient of everlasting days, 

And God of Love ! 

Jehovah ! Great I Am ! 

By earth and heaven confest; 

I bow and bless the sacred Name, 

For ever blest! 

The God of Abraham praise ! 

At whose supreme command 
From earth I rise, and seek the joys 
At His right hand : 

I all on earth forsake, 

Its wisdom, fame, and power, 

And Him my only portion make, 

My Shield and Tower. 

The God of Abraham praise ! 

Whose all-sufficient grace 
Shall guide me all my happy days 
In all my ways : 

He calls a worm His friend ! 

He calls Himself my God ! 

And He shall save me to the end 
Through Jesus’ Blood. 





G04 


FIRESIDE ENCYCLOPAEDIA OF POETRY. 


He by Himself hath sworn, 

I on His oath depend ; 

I shall, on eagle’s wings upborne, 

To heaven ascend; 

1 shall behold His face, 

I shall His power adore, 

And sing the wonders of Ilis grace 
For evermore! 

Though Nature’s strength decay, 

And earth and hell withstand, 

To Canaan’s bounds I urge my way 
At His command : 

The watery deep I pass 
With Jesus in my view, 

And through the howling wilderness 
My way pursue. 

The goodly land I see, 

With peace and plenty blest, 

A land of sacred liberty, 

And endless rest : 

There milk and honey flow, 

And oil and wine abound, 

And trees of life for ever grow, 

With Mercy crown’d. 

There dwells the Lord our King, 

The Lord our Righteousness, 
Triumphant o’er the world and sin, 
The Prince of Peace ! 

On Sion’s sacred height 
His kingdom still maintains, 

And, glorious with His saints in light, 
For ever reigns! 

He keeps His own secure ; 

He guards them by His side ; 
Arrays in garments white and pure 
His spotless Bride; 

With streams of sacred bliss, 

With groves of living joys, 

With all the fruits of Paradise, 

He still supplies. 

Before the great Three-One 
They all exulting stand, 

And tell the wonders He hath done 
Through all their land ; 

The listening spheres attend 
And swell the growing fame, 

And sing, in songs which never end, 
The wondrous Name! 


The God who reigns on high, 

The great Archangels sing, 

And, “ Holy, holy, holy,” cry, 

“ Almighty King ! 

Who Was, and Is, the same, 

And evermore shall be ! 

Jehovah ! Father ! Great I Am ! 

We worship Thee!” 

Before the Saviour’s face 
The ransom’d nations bow, 
O’erwhclm’d at His Almighty grace, 

For ever new: 

He shows His prints of love ; 

They kindle to a flame, 

And sound, through all the worlds above, 
The slaughter’d Lamb! 

The whole triumphant host 
Give thanks to God on high ; 

“Hail! Father, Son, and Holy Ghost J” 
They ever cry: 

Hail! Abraham’s God, and mine ! 

I join the heavenly lays ; 

All might and majesty are Thine, 

And endless praise! 

Thomas Olivers. 


O Thou, from Whom all Good■ 
ness Flows. 

O Thou, from whom all goodness flows, 

I lift my heart to Thee; 

In all my sorrows, conflicts, woes, 

Dear Lord, remember me! 

When groaning on my burden’d heart 
My sins lie heavily, 

My pardon speak, new peace impart, 

In love remember me! 

Temptations sore obstruct my way ; 

And ills I cannot flee : 

Oh, give me strength, Lord, as my day; 
For good remember me! 

Distrest with pain, disease, and grief, 

This feeble body see! 

Grant patience, rest, and kind relief; 
Hear, and remember me ! 

If on my face, for Thy dear Name, 

Shame and reproaches be; 




PSALMS AND HYMNS AND SPIRITUAL SONGS: 


605 


All hail reproach, and welcome shame, 

If Thou remember me ! 

The hour is near; consign’d to death 
I own the just decree : 

Saviour !” with my last parting breath, 
I’ll cry, “ Remember me !” 

Thomas Haweis. 


Come, thou Fount of Every 
Blessing. 

Come, Thou Fount of every blessing, 
Tune mine heart to sing Thy grace; 

Streams of mercy, never ceasing, 

Call for songs of loudest praise. 

Teach me some melodious sonnet, 

Sung by flaming tongues above; 

Praise the mount—I’m fix’d upon it— 
Mount of God’s unchanging love! 

Here I raise my Ebenezer! 

Hither by Thine help I’m come; 

And I hope, by Thy good pleasure, 
Safely to arrive at home. 

Jesus sought me when a stranger, 
Wandering from the fold of God ; 

He, to rescue me from danger, 
Interposed with precious blood. 

Oh, to grace how great a debtor 
Daily I’m constrain’d to be! 

Let that grace now, like a fetter, 

Bind my wandering heart to Thee; 

Prone to wander, Lord, I feel it, 

Prone to leave the God I love; 

Here’s mine heart, oh take and seal it; 
Seal it from Thy courts above. 

Robert Robinson. 


Hymn. 

0 Word of God incarnate, 

O Wisdom from on high, 

O Truth unchanged, unchanging, 
O Light of our dark sky; 

We praise thee for the radiance 
That from the hallowed page, 

A lantern to our footsteps, 

Shines on from age to age. 

The Church from her dear Master, 
Received the gift divine; 


And still that light she lifteth 
O’er all the earth to shine. 

It is the golden casket 
Where gems of truth are stored; 

It is the heaven-drawn picture 
Of thee, the living Word. 

It floateth like a banner 
Before God’s host unfurled; 

It sliineth like a beacon 
Above the darkling world; 

It is the chart and compass, 

That o’er life’s surging sea, 

’Mid mists and rocks and quicksands. 
Still guide, O Christ, to thee. 

Oh, make thy Church, dear Saviour, 

A lamp of burnished gold,* 

To bear before the nations 
Thy true light as of old. 

Oh, teach thy wandering pilgrims 
By this their path to trace 

Till, clouds and darkness ended, 

They see thee face to face. 

William Walsham How. 

HYMN. 

Lead us, Heavenly Father, lead U3 
O’er the world’s tempestuous sea; 

Guard us, guide us, keep us, feed us, 
For we have no help but thee; 

Yet possessing 
Every blessing 
If our God our Father be. 

Saviour, breathe forgiveness o’er us; 
All our weakness thou dost know; 

Thou didst tread this earth before us, 
Thou didst feel its keenest woe ; 
Lone and dreary, 

Faint and weary, 

Through the desert thou didst go. 

Spirit of our God, descending, 

Fill our hearts with heavenly joy; 

Love with every passion blending, 
Pleasures that can never cloy: 

Thus provided, 

Pardoned, guided, 

Nothing can our peace destroy. 

James Edmbston. 






606 


FIRESIDE ENCYCLOPEDIA OF POETRY. 


On a Pra yer-Book 
sent to Mrs. M. R. 

Lo! here a little volume, but great book, 
(Fear it not, sweet, 

It is no hypocrite!) 

Much larger in itself than in its look! 

It is—in one rich handful—heaven and 
all 

Heaven’s royal hosts encamp’d — thus 
small 

To prove, that true schools use to tell, 

A thousand angels in one point can 
dwell. 

It is love’s great artillery. 

Which here contracts itself, and comes to 
lie 

Close couch’d in your white bosom, and 
from thence, 

As from a snowy fortress of defence, 
Against the ghostly foe to take your 
part, 

And fortify the hold of your chaste 
heart. 

It is the armory of light— 

Let constant use but keep it bright, 

You’ll find it yields 
To holy hands and humble hearts 
More swords and shields 
Than sin hath snares, or hell hath darts. 
Only be sure 
The hands be pure 

That hold these weapons, and the eyes 
Those of turtles—chaste and true, 

Wakeful and wise. 

Here is a friend shall fight for you; 

Hold but this book before your heart, 

Let prayer alone to play his part. 

But oh! the heart 

That studies this high art 

Must be a sure housekeeper, 

And yet no sleeper. 

Dear soul, be strong, 

Mercy will come ere long, 

And bring her bosom full of blessings— 
Flowers of never-fading graces, 

To make immortal dressings 
For worthy souls, whose wise embraces 
Store uji> themselves for Him who is alone 
The Spouse of virgins and the Virgin’s 
Son. 


But if the noble Bridegroom, when He 
comes, 

Shall find the wandering heart from 
home, 

Leaving her chaste abode 
To gad abroad— 

Amongst the gay mates of the god of 
flies 

To take her pleasures, and to play, 

And keep the devil’s holiday— 

To dance in the sunshine of some smiling, 
But beguiling 

Spear of sweet and sugar’d lies— 

Some slippery pair 
Of false, perhaps as fair, 

Flattering but forswearing eyes— 

Doubtless some other heart 
Will get the start, 

And, stepping in before, 

Will take possession of the sacred store 
Of hidden sweets and holy joys— 
Words which are not heard with ears 
(These tumultuous shops of noise), 

Effectual whispers, whose still voice 
The soul itself more feels than hears— 

Amorous languishments, luminous trances, 
Sights which are not seen with eyes—* 
Spiritual and soul-piercing glances, 

Whose pure and subtle lightning flies 
Home to the heart, and sets the house on 
fire, 

And melts it down in sweet desire; 

Yet doth not stay 

To ask the windows leave to pass that 
way— 

Delicious deaths, soft exhalations 
Of soul, dear and divine annihilations— 

A thousand unknown rites 
Of joys, and rarefied delights— 

An hundred thousand loves and graces, 
And many a mystic thing 
Which the divine embraces 
Of the dear Spouse of spirits with them 
will bring, 

For which it is no shame 
That dull mortality must not know a 
name. 

Of all this hidden store 
Of blessings, and ten thousand more, 

If, when He come, 

He find the heart from home, 









PSALMS AND HYMNS ANI) SPIRITUAL SONGS.” 


607 


Doubtless He will unload 
Himself some otherwhere, 

And pour abroad 
His precious sweets 
On the fair soul whom first He meets. 

Oh fair ! oh fortunate! oh rich ! oh dear! 
Oh, happy and thrice happy she— 
Dear silver-breasted dove, 

Whoe’er she be, 

Whose early love 
With winged vows 

Makes haste to meet her morning Spouse, 
And close with His immortal kisses— 
Happy soul! who never misses 
To improve that precious hour, 

And every day 
Seize her sweet prey, 

All fresh and fragrant as He rises, 
Dropping with a balmy shower, 

A delicious dew of spices! 

Oil! let that happy soul hold fast 
Her heavenly armful; she shall taste 
At once ten thousand paradises; 

She shall have power 
To rifle and deflower 

The rich and roseal spring of those rare 

sweets 

Which, with a swelling bosom, there she 

meets; 

Boundless and infinite, bottomless treasures ' 
Of pure inebriating pleasures; 
Happy soul! she shall discover 
What joy, what bliss, 

How many heavens at once, it is, 

To have a God become her lover. 

Richard Crashaw. 

To Keep a True Lent. 

Is this a fast—to keep 
The larder lean, 

And clean 

From fat of veals and sheep ? 

Is it to quit the dish 

Of flesh, yet still 
To fill 

The platter high with fish? 

Is it to fast an hour— 

Or ragged to go— 

Or show 

A downcast look, and sour ? 


No! ’tis a fast to dole 

Thy sheaf of wheat, 

And meat, 

Unto the hungry soul. 

It is to fast from strife, 

From old debate 
And hate— 

To circumcise thy life. 

To show a heart grief-rent; 

To starve thy sin, 

Not bin ; 

And that’s to keep thy Lent. 

Robert Herrick. 


The Pilot. 

“ Oh ! pilot, 'tis a fearful night, 

There’s danger on the deep ! 

I’ll come and pace the deck with thee, 

I do not dare to sleep.” 

“ Go down !” the sailor cried, “ go down ] 
This is no place for thee; 

Fear not, but trust in Providence, 
Wherever thou mayst be.” 

“ Ah ! pilot, dangers often met 
We all are apt to slight, 

And thou hast known these raging wave; 
But to subdue their might.” 

“It is not apathy,” he cried, 

“That gives this strength to me ; 

Fear not, but trust in Providence, 
Wherever thou mayst be.” 

“ On such a night, the sea engulplied 
My father’s lifeless form; 

My only brother’s boat went down 
In just so wild a storm : 

And such, perhaps, may be my fate, 

But still I say to thee, 

Fear not, but trust in Providence, 
Wherever thou mayst be.” 

Thomas Haynes Bayi.y. 


Nearer Home. 

One sweetly solemn thought 
Comes to me o’er and o’er; 

I’m nearer my home to-day 
Than I ever have been before; 






608 


FIRESIDE ENCYCLOPAEDIA OF POETRY. 


Nearer my Father’s house, 

Where the many mansions be; 
Nearer the great white throne; 
Nearer the crystal sea; 

Nearer the bound of life, 

Where we lay our burdens down; 
Nearer leaving the cross; 

Nearer gaining the crown. 

But lying darkly between, 

Winding down through the night, 
Is the silent, unknown stream 
That leads at last to the light. 

Closer and closer my steps 
Come to the dread abysm : 

Closer Death to my lips 
Presses the awful chrism. 

Oh, if my mortal feet 

Have almost gain’d the brink ; 

If it be I am nearer home 
Even to-day than I think ; 

Father, perfect my trust; 

Let my spirit feel in death 
That her feet are firmly set 
On the rock of a living faith! 

Pikebic Cary. 


Ye Golden Lamps of Heaven, 
Farewell. 

Ye golden lamps of heaven, farewell, 
With all your feeble light: 

Farewell, thou ever-changing moon, 
Pale empress of the night. 

And thou, refulgent orb of day, 

In brighter flames array’d ; 

My soul, that springs beyond thy sphere, 
No more demands thine aid. 

Ye stars are but the shining dust 
Of my divine abode, 

The pavement of those heavenly courts 
Where I shall reign with God. 


The Father of eternal light 
Shall there His beams display, 

Nor shall one moment’s darkness mix 
With that unvaried day. 

No more the drops of piercing grief 
Shall swell into mine eyes ; 

Nor the meridian sun decline 
Amid those brighter skies. 

There all the millions of His saints 
Shall in one song unite, 

And each the bliss of all shall view 
With infinite delight. 

Philip Doddridge. 

Thy Way, Not Mine. 

Thy way, not mine, O Lord, 
However dark it be! 

Lead me by Thine own hand, 

Choose out the path for me. 

Smooth let it be, or rough, 

It will be still the best; 

Winding or straight, it matters not, 
Eight onward to Thy rest. 

I dare not choose my lot; 

I would not, if I might; 

Choose Thou for me, my God; 

So shall I walk aright. 

The kingdom that I seek 
Is Thine; so let the way 
That leads to it be Thine, 

Else I must surely stray. 

Take Thou my cup, and it 
With joy or sorrow fill, 

As best to thee may seem; 

Choose Thou my good and ill. 

Choose Thou for me my friends, 

My sickness or my health; 

Choose Thou my cares for me, 

My poverty or wealth. 

Not mine, not mine the choice, 

In things or great or small; 

Be Thou my guide, my strength 
My wisdom, and my all. 

Horatius Bonar. 






‘PSALMS AND HYMNS AND SPIRITUAL SONUS. 


609 


ON ANOTHER'S SORROW. 

Can I see another’s woe, 

And not be in sorrow too ? 

Can I see another’s grief, 

And not seek for kind relief? 

Can I see a falling tear, 

And not feel my sorrow’s share ? 

Can a father see his child 
Weep, nor be with sorrow fill’d? 

Can a mother sit and hear 
An infant groan, an infant fear? 

No ! no ! never can it be— 

Never, never can it be! 

And can He who smiles on all, 

Hear the wren with sorrows small, 
Hear the small bird’s grief and care, 
Hear the woes that infants bear,— 

And not sit beside the nest, 

Touring pity in their breast? 

And not sit the cradle near, 

Weeping tear on infant’s tear? 

And not sit both night and day, 
Wiping all our tears away? 

Oh, no ! never can it be— 

Never, never can it be! 

He doth give His joy to all; 

He becomes an infant small, 

He becomes a man of woe, 
lie doth feel the sorrow too. 

Think not thou canst sigh a sigh, 
And thy Maker is not nigh; 

Think not thou canst weep a tear, 
And thy Maker is not near. 

Oh ! He gives to us His joy, 

That our griefs He may destroy. 

Till our grief is fled and gone 
He doth sit by us and moan. 

William Blake. 

Home in View. 

ks when the weary traveller gains 
The height of some commanding hill, 
3is heart revives, if o’er the plains 
He sees his home, though distant still. 

rhus when the Christian pilgrim views 
By faith his mansion in the skies, 

39 


The sight his fainting heart renews, 

And wings his speed to reach the prize. 

The thought of heaven his spirit cheers; 

No more he grieves for troubles past; 
Nor any future trial fears, 

So he may safe arrive at last. 

Jesus, on Thee our hopes we stay, 

To lead us on to Thine abode; 

Assured Thy love will far o’erpay 
The hardest labors of the road. 

John Newton. 


Psalm lxxii. 

Jesus shall reign where’er the sun 
Does his successive journey’s run ; 

His kingdom stretch from shore to shore, 
Till moons shall wax and wane no more. 

Behold the islands with their kings, 

And Europe her best tribute brings; 
From north to south the princes meet 
To pay their homage at His feet. 

There Persia, glorious to behold, 

There India shines in eastern gold; 

And barbarous nations at His word, 
Submit, and bow, and own their Lord. 

For Him shall endless prayer be made, 
And praises throng to crown His head ; 
His name like sweet perfume shall rise 
With every morning sacrifice. 

People and realms of every tongue 
Dwell on His love with sweetest song; 
And infant voices shall proclaim 
Their early blessings on His name. 

Blessings abound where’er He reigns 
The prisoner leaps to lose his chains ; 

The weary find eternal rest, 

And all the sons of want are blest. 

Where He displays His healing power, 
Death and the curse are known no more; 
In Him the tribes of Adam boast 
More blessings than their father lost. 







010 


FIRESIDE ENCYCLOPAEDIA OF POETRY. 


Let every creature rise anti bring 
Peculiar honors to our King; 

Angels descend with songs again, 

And earth repeat the long Amen. 

Isaac Watts. 


Psalm XC. 

Our God, our help in ages past, 

Our hope for years to come, 

Our shelter from the stormy blast, 

And our eternal home: 

Under the shadow of Thy throne 
Thy saints have dwelt secure; 

Sufficient is Thine arm alone, 

And our defence is sure. 

Before the hills in order stood, 

Or earth received her frame, 

From everlasting Thou art God, 

To endless years the same. 

A thousand ages in Thy sight 
Are like an evening gone; 

Short as the watch that ends the night 
Before the rising sun. 

The busy tribes of flesh and blood, 

With all their lives and cares, 

Are carried downward by Thy flood, 
And lost in following years. 

Time, like an ever-rolling stream, 

Bears all its sons away ; 

They fly forgotten, as a dream 
Dies at the opening day. 

Our God, our help in ages past; 

Our hope for years to come; 

Be Thou our guard while troubles last, 
And our eternal home! 

Isaac Watts. 

PSALM XCVIII. 

Joy to the world ! the Lord is come : 

Let earth receive her King: 

Let every heart prepare Him room, 

And heaven and nature sing. 

Joy to the earth ! the Saviour reigns : 

Let men their songs employ ; 

While fields and floods, rocks, hills, and 
plains, 

Repeat the sounding joy. 


No more let sins and sorrows grow, 

Nor thorns infest the ground: 

He comes to make llis blessings flow 
Far as the curse is found. 

He rules the world with truth and grace. 
And makes the nations prove 
The glories of His righteousness, 

And wonders of His love. 

Isaac Watts. 

The Changed Cross. 

It was a time of sadness, and my heart, 
Although it knew and loved the better 
part, 

Felt wearied with the conflict and the 
strife, 

And all the needful discipline of life. 

And while I thought on these as given to 
me, 

My trial-tests of faith and love to be, 

It seem’d as if I never could be sure 
That faithful to the end I should endure. 

. And thus, no longer trusting to His might 
Who says, “ We walk by faith and not by 
sight,” 

Doubting, and almost yielding to despair, 
The thought arose, “ My cross I cannot 
bear. 

“ Far heavier its weight must surely be 
Than those of others which I daily see; 
Oh ! if I might another burden choose, 
Methinks I should not fear my crown to 
lose.” 

A solemn silence reign’d on all around, 
E’en Nature’s voices utter’d not a sound; 
The evening shadows seem’d of peace to 
tell, 

And sleep upon my weary spirit fell. 

A moment’s pause,—and then a heavenly 
light 

Beam’d full upon my wondering, raptured 
sight; 

Angels on silvery wings seem’d every¬ 
where, 

And angels’ music thrill’d the balmy air. 












611 


“PSALMS AND HYMNS AND SPIRITUAL SONGS .” 


Then One, more fair than all the rest to 
see, 

One to whom all the others bow’d the 
knee, 

Came gently to me, as I trembling lay, 
And, “Follow me,” He said; “I am the 
Way.” 

Then, speaking thus, He led me far above, 
And there, beneath a canopy of love, 
Crosses of divers shape and size were seen, 
Larger and smaller than my own had been. 

And one there was most beauteous to be¬ 
hold,— 

A little one, with jewels set in gold. 

Ah! this, methought, I can with comfort 
wear, 

For it will be an easy one to bear. 

And so the little cross I quickly took, 

But all at once my frame beneath it shook ; 
The sparkling jewels, fair were they to see, 
But far too heavy was their weight for me. 

“ This may not be,” I cried, and look’d 
again, 

To see if there was any here could ease my 
pain; 

But, one by one, I pass’d them slowly by, 
Till on a lovely one I cast my eye. 

Fair flowers around its sculptured form 
entwined, 

And grace and beauty seem’d in it com¬ 
bined. 

Wondering I gazed,—and still I wonder’d 
more, 

To think so many should have pass’d it o’er. 

But oh that form so beautiful to see 
Soon made its hidden sorrows known to 
me ; 

Thorns lay beneath those flowers and colors 
fair; 

Sorrowing I said, “ This cross I may not 
bear.” 

And so it was with each and all around, 
Not one to suit my need could there be 
found; 

Weeping I laid each heavy burden down, 
As my Guide gently said, “ No cross,—no 
crown.” 


At length to Him I raised my sadden’d 
heart; 

He knew its sorrows, bade its doubts de¬ 
part ; 

“ Be not afraid,” He said, “ but trust in 
Me; 

My perfect love shall now be shown to 
thee.” 

And then, with lighten’d eyes and willing 
feet, 

Again \ turn’d, my earthly cross to meet; 
With forward footsteps, turning not aside, 
For fear some hidden evil might betide; 

And there,—in the prepared, appointed 
way, 

Listening to hear, and ready to obey,— 

A cross I quickly found of plainest form, 
With only words of love inscribed thereon. 

With thankfulness T raised it from the 
rest, 

And joyfully acknowledged it the best,— 
The only one, of all the many there, 

That I could feel was good for me to bear. 

And while I thus my chosen one confess’d, 
I saw a heavenly brightness on it rest; 
And as I bent, my burden to sustain, 

I recognized my own old cross again. 

But, oh! how different did it seem to be, 
Now I had learn’d its preciousness to see! 
No longer could I unbelieving say, 
“Perhaps another is a better way.” 

Ah, no! henceforth my one desire shall 
be, 

That He, who knows me best should choose 
for me ; 

And so, whate’er His love sees good to 
send, 

I’ll trust it’s best,—because He knows the 
end. 

Mrs. Charles Hobart 

Weary. 

I would have gone ; God bade me stay : 

I would have work’d; God bade me 
rest. 

He broke my will from day to day ; 

He read my yearnings unexpress’d, 

And said them nay. 






612 


FIRESIDE ENCYCLOPAEDIA OF POETRY. 


Now I would stay; God bids me go : 

Now I would rest; God bids me work. 
He breaks my heart toss’d to and fro; 

My soul is wrung with doubts that lurk 
And vex it so! 

I go, Lord, where Thou sendest me; 

Day after day I plod and moil; 

But, Christ my God, when will it be 
That I may let alone my toil, 

And rest with Thee? 

Christina Georgina Rossetti. 

Litany to tee Holy Spirit. 

In the hour of my distress, 

When temptations me oppress, 

And when I my sins confess, 

Sweet Spirit, comfort me! 

When I lie within my bed, 

Sick in heart and sick in head, 

And with doubts discomforted, 

Sweet Spirit, comfort me ! 

When the house doth sigh and weep, 
And the world is drown’d in sleep, 

Yet mine eyes the watch do keep, 

Sweet Spirit, comfort me ! 

When the artless doctor sees 
No one hope, but of his fees, 

And his skill runs on the lees, 

Sweet Spirit, comfort me I 

When his potion and his pill, 

His or none or little skill, 

Meet for nothing, but to kill, 

Sweet Spirit, comfort me ! 

When the passing bell doth toll, 

And the furies in a shoal 
Come to fright a parting soul, 

Sweet Spirit, comfort me ! 

When the tapers now burn blue, 

And the comforters are few, 

And that number more than true, 

Sweet Spirit, comfort me! 

When the priest his last hath pray’d, 
And I nod to what is said, 

’Cause my speech is now decay’d, 

Sweet Spirit, comfort me! 


When, God knows, I’m toss’d about 
Either with despair or doubt; 

Yet before the glass be out, 

Sweet Spirit, comfort me! 

When the tempter me pursu’th 
With the sins of all my youth, 

And half damns me with untruth, 
Sweet Spirit, comfort me ! 

When the flames and hellish cries 
Fright mine ears and fright mine eyes, 
And all terrors me surprise, 

Sweet Spirit, comfort me I 

When the Judgment is reveal’d, 

And that open’d which was seal’d, 
When to Thee I have appeal’d, 

Sweet Spirit, comfort me ! 

Robert Herrick. 

In Time of Pestilence. 

( 1593 .) 

Adieu, farewell earth’s bliss ! 

This world uncertain is : 

Fond are life’s lustful joys, 

Death proves them all but toys. 

None from his darts can fly; 

I am sick, I must die— 

Lord, have mercy on us I 

Rich men, trust not in wealth, 

Gold cannot buy you health ; 

Physic himself must fade; 

All things to end are made; 

The plague full swift goes by; 

I am sick, I must die— 

Lord, have mercy on us ! 

Beauty is but a flower 
Which wrinkles will devour; 

Brightness falls from the air; 

Queens have died young and fair; 

Dust hath closed Helen’s eye; 

I am sick, I must die— 

Lord, have mercy on us! 

Strenth stoops unto the grave, 

Worms feed on Hector brave; 

Swords may not fight with fate; 

Earth still holds ope her gate; 

Come, come ! the bells do cry ; 

I am sick, I must die— 

Lord, have mercy on us ! 




“ PSALMS AND HYMNS AND SPIRITUAL SONGS ” 


613 


Wit with his wantonuess 
Tasteth death’s bitterness; 

Hell’s executioner 
Hath no ears for to hear 
What vain art can reply; 

I am sick, I must die— 

Lord, have mercy on us! 

Haste, therefore, each degree 
To welcome destiny; 

Heaven is our heritage, 

Earth but a player’s stage. 

Mount we unto the sky ; 

I am sick, I must die— 

Lord, have mercy on us! 

Thomas Nashe. 

All's Well. 

The day is ended. Ere I sink to sleep, 

My weary spirit seeks repose in Thine. 
Father! forgive my trespasses, and keep 
This little life of mine. 

With loving-kindness curtain Thou my 
bed, 

And cool in rest my burning pilgrim-feet, 
Thy pardon be the pillow for my head ; 

So shall my sleep be sweet. 

At peace with all the world, dear Lord, and 
Thee, 

No fears my soul’s unwavering faith can 
shake; 

All’s well, whichever side the grave for me 
The morning light may break. 

Harriet McEwen Kimball. 

The Fool's Prayer. 

The royal feast was done; the King 
Sought some new sport to banish care, 
And to his jester cried: “ Sir Fool, 

Kneel now, and make for us a prayer!” 

The jester doffed his cap and bells, 

And stood the mocking court before; 
They could not see the bitter smile 
Behind the painted grin he wore. 

He bowed his head, and bent his knee 
Upon the monarch’s silken stool; 

His pleading voice arose: “O Lord, 

Be merciful to me, a fool! 


“ No pity, Lord, could change the heart 
From red with wrong to white as wool: 

The rod must heal the sin ; but, Lord, 

Be merciful to me, a fool! 

“ ’Tis not by guilt the onward sweep 
Of trust and right, O Lord, we stay; 

’Tis by our follies that so long 
We hold the earth from heaven away. 

“ These clumsy feet, still in the mire, 

Go crushing blossoms without end; 

These hard, well-meaning hands we thrust 
Among the heart-strings of a friend. 

“ The ill-timed truth we might have kept— 
Who knows how sharp it pierced and 
stung! 

The word we had not sense to say— 

Who knows how grandly it had rung! 

“ Our faults no tenderness should ask, 

The chastening stripes must cleanse 
them all; 

But for our blunders—oh, in shame 
Before the eyes of heaven we fall. 

“ Earth bears no balsam for mistakes ; 

Men crown the knave, and scourge the 
tool 

That did his will; but Thou, 0 Lord, 

Be merciful to me, a fool! ” 

The room was hushed ; in silence rose 
The King, and sought his gardens cool, 

And walked apart, and murmured low, 

“ Be merciful to me, a fool! ” 

Edward Rowland Sill. 

I would not Live Alway. 

I would not live alway—live alway 
below! 

Oh no, I’ll not linger, when bidden to go. 

The days of our pilgrimage granted us 
here 

Are enought for life’s woes, full enough 
for its cheer. 

Would I shrink from the path which the 
prophets of God, 

Apostles, and Martyrs so joyfully trod? 






<314 


FIRESIDE ENCYCLOPAEDIA OF POETRY. 


While brethren and friends are all hasten¬ 
ing home, 

Like a spirit unblest, o’er the earth would 
I roam? 

I would not live alway: I ask not to 
stay 

Where storm after storm rises dark o’er 
the way; 

Where, seeking for rest, I but hover 
around 

Like the patriarch’s bird, and no resting 
is found; 

Where Hope, when she paints her gay bow 
in the air, 

Leaves her brilliance to fade in the night 
of despair, 

And Joy’s fleeting angel ne’er sheds a glad 
ray, 

Save the gleam of the plumage that bears 
him away. 

I would not live alway, thus fetter’d by 
sin, 

Temptation without, and corruption with¬ 
in ; 

In a moment of strength, if I sever the 
chain, 

Scarce the victory is mine ere I’m captive 
again. 

E’en the rapture of pardon is mingled 
with fears, 

And the cup of thanksgiving with penitent 
tears. 

The festival trump calls for jubilant 
songs, 

But my spirit her own miserere prolongs. 

I would not live alway: no, welcome the { 
tomb; 

Immortality’s lamp burns there bright ’mid 
the gloom. 

There, too, is the pillow where Christ 
bow’d his head; 

Oh, soft be my slumbers on that holy 
bed! 

And then the glad morn soon to follow j 
that night, 

When the sunrise of glory shall burst on 
my sight, 

And the full matin-song as the sleepers arise 

To shout in the morning, shall peal through 
the skies. 


Who, who would live alway, away from 
his God, 

Away from yon Heaven, that blissful 
abode, 

Where the rivers of pleasure flow o’er the 
bright plains, 

And the noontide of glory eternally 
reigns; 

Where the saints of all ages in harmony 
meet, 

Their Saviour and brethren transported to 
greet, 

While the anthems of rapture unceasingly 
roll, 

And the smile of the Lord is the feast of 
the soul ? 

That heavenly music ! what is it I hear ? 

The notes of the harpers ring sweet on my 
ear! 

And see soft unfolding those portals of 
gold, 

The King all array’d in His beauty behold! 

Oh give me, oh give me the wings of a 
dove! 

Let me hasten my flight to those mansions 
above: 

Ay ! ’tis now that my soul on swift pinions 
would soar, 

And in ecstasy bid earth adieu evermore. 

William Augustus Muhlenberg. 


Stanzas on the Death of a 
Friend. 

Thou art gone to the grave: but we will 
not deplore thee, 

Though sorrows and darkness encompass 
the tomb: 

Thy Saviour has pass’d through its portal 
before thee, 

And the lamp of His love is thy guide 
through the gloom! 

Thou art gone to the grave : we no longer 
behold thee, 

Nor tread the rough paths of the world 
by thy side; 

But the wide arms of Mercy are spread to 
enfold thee, 

And sinners may die, for the Sinless has 
died! 










“PSALMS AND HYMNS AND SPIRITUAL SONGS. 


615 


Thou art gone to the grave: and, its man¬ 
sion forsaking, 

Perhaps thy weak spirit in fear linger’d 
long; 

But the mild rays of Paradise beam’d on 
thy waking, 

And the sound which thou heard’st was 
the Seraphim’s song! 

Thou art gone to the grave: but we will not 
deplore thee; 

Whose God was thy ransom, thy Guar¬ 
dian, and Guide! 

He gave thee, He took thee, and He will 
restore thee; 

And death has no sting, for the Saviour 
has died! 

Reginald Heber. 


Burial Hymn. 

Brother, thou art gone before us; and 
thy saintly soul is flown 

Where tears are wiped from every eye, and 
sorrow is unknown; 

From the burden of the flesh, and from 
care and fear released, 

Where the wdcked cease from troubling, 
and the weary are at rest. 

The toilsome way thou’st travelled o’er, 
and borne the heavy load; 

But Christ hath taught thy languid feet to 
reach His blest abode: 

Thou’rt sleeping now, like Lazarus upon 
his Father’s breast, 

Where the wicked cease from troubling, 
and the weary are at rest. 

Sin can never taint thee now, nor doubt thy 
faith assail, 

Nor thy meek trust in Jesus Christ and the 
Holy Spirit fail: 

And there thou’rt sure to meet the good, 
whom on earth thou lovedst best, 

Where the wicked cease from troubling, 
and the weary are at rest. 

Earth to earth, and dust to dust, the solemn 
priest hath said; 

So we lay the turf above thee now, and we 
seal thy narrow bed; 


But thy spirit, brother, soars away among 
the faithful blest, 

Where the wicked cease from troubling, 
and the weary are at rest. 

And when the Lord shall summon us, whom 
thou hast left behind, 

May we, untainted by the world, as sure a 
welcome find! 

May each, like thee, depart in peace, to be 
a glorious guest, 

Where the wicked cease from troubling, 
and the weary are at rest! 

Henry Hart Milman. 

A Little While. 

Beyond the smiling and the weeping 
I shall be soon ; 

Beyond the waking and the sleeping, 
Beyond the sowing and the reaping, 

I shall be soon. 

Love, rest, and home ! 

Sweet hope! 

Lord, tarry not, but come. 

Beyond the blooming and the fading 
I shall be soon ; 

Beyond the shining and the shading, 
Beyond the hoping and the dreading, 

I shall be soon. 

Love, rest, and home! 

Sweet hope! 

Lord, tarry not, but come. 

Beyond the rising and the setting 
I shall be soon ; 

Beyond the calming and the fretting, 
Beyond remembering and forgetting, 

I shall be soon. 

Love, rest, and home ! 

Sweet hope! 

Lord, tarry not, but come. 

Beyond the gathering and the strowing 
I shall be soon; 

Beyond the ebbing and the flowing, 
Beyond the coming and the going, 

I shall be soon. 

Love, rest, and home! 

Sweet hope! 

Lord, tarry not, but come. 






616 


FIRESIDE ENCYCLOPAEDIA OF POETRY. 


Beyond the parting and the meeting 
I shall be soon ; 

Beyond the farewell and the greeting, 
Beyond this pulse’s fever beating, 

I shall be soon. 

Love, rest, and home! 

Sweet hope! 

Lord, tarry not, but come. 

Beyond the frost-chain and the fever 
I shall be soon ; 

Beyond the rock-waste and the river, 
Beyond the ever and the never, 

I shall be soon. 

Love, rest, and home! 

Sweet hope! 

Lord, tarry not, but come. 

Hokatius Bonar. 


“0 May I Join the Choir 
Invisible /” 

O may I join the choir invisible 
Of those immortal dead who live again 
In minds made better by their presence: 
live 

In pulses stirr’d to generosity, 

In deeds of daring rectitude, in scorn 
For miserable aims that end with self, 

In thoughts sublime that pierce the night 
like stars, 

And with their mild persistence urge man’s 
search 

To vaster issues. 

So to live is heaven: 

To make undying music in the world, 
Breathing as beauteous order that controls 
With growing sway the growing life of 
man. 

So we inherit that sweet purity 
For which we struggled, fail’d, and agoniz’d 
With widening retrospect that bred de¬ 
spair. 

Rebellious flesh that would not be subdued, 
A vicious parent shaming still its child, 
Poor anxious penitence, is quick dissolv’d; 
Its discords, quench’d by meeting harmo¬ 
nies, 

Die in the large and charitable air. 

And all our rarer, better, truer self, 

That sobb’d religiously in yearning song, 


That watch’d to ease the burthen of th< 
world, 

Laboriously tracing what must be, 

And what may yet be better,—saw witliic 
A worthier image for the sanctuary, 

And shap’d it forth before the multitude 
Divinely human, raising worship so 
To higher reverence more mix’d with 
love— 

That better self shall live till human Time 
Shall fold its eyelids, and the human sky 
Be gather’d like a scroll within the tomb 
Unread forever. 

This is life to come, 

Which martyr’d men have made more glo¬ 
rious 

For us who strive to follow. May I reach 
That purest heaven, be to other souls 
The cup of strength in some great agony, 
Enkindle generous ardor, feed pure love, 
Beget the smiles that have no cruelty— 

Be the sweet presence of a good diffus’d, 
And in diffusion ever more intense. 

So shall I join the choir invisible 
Whose music is the gladness of the world. 
Mary Ann Evans (Lewes) Cross. 

The Dying Christian to his 
Soul. 

Vital spark of heavenly flame, 

Quit, oh, quit this mortal frame ! 
Trembling, hoping, lingering, flying, 
Oh, the pain, the bliss, of dying ! 

Cease, fond Nature, cease thy strife, 
And let me languish into life ! 

Hark ! they whisper ; angels say, 

. Sister Spirit, come away. 

What is this absorbs me quite— 

Steals my senses, shuts my sight, 
Drowns my spirit, draws my breath ? 
Tell me, my soul! can this be death 7 

The world recedes—it disappears ! 
Heaven opens on my eyes ! my ears 
With sounds seraphic ring. 

Lend, lend your wings ! I mount, I fly 
O Grave ! where is thy victory ? 

O Death ! where is thy sting ? 

Alexander Pope. 





PSALMS AND HYMNS AND SPIRITUAL SONGS: 


6i: 


They are All Gone. 

They arc all gone into the world of light, 
And I alone sit lingering here ! 

Their very memory is fair and bright, 

And my sad thoughts doth clear. 

It glows and glitters in my cloudy breast, 
Like stars upon some gloomy grove, 

Or those faint beams in which this hill is 
drest 

After the sun’s remove. 

I see them walking in an air of glory, 
Whose light doth trample on my days; 
My days, which are at best but dull and 
hoary, 

Mere glimmering and decays. 

O holy hope ! and high humility,— 

High as the heavens above ! 

These are your walks, and you have show’d 
them me 

To kindle my cold love. 

Dear, beauteous death,—the jewel of the 
just, 

Shining nowhere hut in the dark ! 

What mysteries do lie beyond thy dust, 
Could man outlook that mark ! 

He that hath found some fledged bird’s 
nest may know, 

At first sight, if the bird be flown ; 

But what fair dell or grove he sings in now, 
That is to him unknown. 

And yet, as angels in some brighter dreams 
Call to the soul when man doth sleep, 

So some strange thoughts transcend our 
wonted themes, 

And into glory peep. 

If a star were confined into a tomb, 

Her captive flames must needs burn there; 
But when the hand that lockt her up gives 
room, 

She’ll shine through all the sphere. 

O Father of eternal life, and all 
Created glories under Thee ! 

Resume Thy Spirit from this world of thrall 
Into true liberty! 

Either disperse these mists, which blot and 
fill 

My perspective still as they pass; 


Or else remove me hence unto that hill 
Where I shall need no glass. 

Henry Vaughan. 

For ever with the Lord. 

For ever with the Lord ! 

Amen ! so let it be ! 

Life from the dead is in that word, 
’Tis immortality 1 

Here in the body pent, 

Absent from Him I roam, 

Yet nightly pitch my moving tent 
A day’s march nearer home. 

My Father’s house on high, 

Home of my soul! how near, 

At times, to faith’s far-seeing eye 
Thy golden gates appear! 

Ah ! then my spirit faints 
To reach the land I love, 

The bright inheritance of saints, 
Jerusalem above! 

Yet clouds will intervene, 

And all my prospect flies; 

Like Noah’s dove, I flit between 
Rough seas and stormy skies. 

Anon the clouds depart, 

The winds and waters cease; 

While sweetly o’er my gladden’d heart 
Expands the bow of peace! 

Beneath its glowing arch, 

Along the hallow’d ground, 

I see cherubic armies march, 

A camp of fire around. 

I hear at morn and even, 

At noon and midnight hour, 

The choral harmonies of heaven 
Earth’s Babel tongues o’erpower. 

Then, then I feel, that He, 
Remember’d or forgot, 

The Lord is never far from me. 
Though I perceive Him not. 

James Montgomery. 




618 


FIRESIDE ENCYCLOPAEDIA OF POETRY. 


What are These in Bright 
Arra y. 

What are these in bright array, 

This innumerable throng, 

Round the altar, night and day, 
Hymning one triumphant song? 

“ Worthy is the Lamb, once slain, 
Blessing, honor, glory, power, 
Wisdom, riches, to obtain, 

New dominion every hour.” 

These through fiery trials trod; 

These from great affliction came; 

Now, before the Throne of God, 

Seal’d with His Almighty Name, 

Clad in raiment pure and white, 
Victor-palms in every hand, 

Through their dear Redeemer’s might, 
More than conquerors they stand. 

Hunger, thirst, disease unknown, 

On immortal fruits they feed; 

Them the Lamb amidst the Throne 
Shall to living fountains lead: 

Joy and gladness banish sighs ; 

Perfect love dispels all fear ; 

And for ever from their eyes 
God shall wipe away the tear. 

James Montgomery. 

At Last. 

When on my day of life the night is falling, 
And, in the winds from unsunned spaces 
blown, 

I hear far voices out of darkness calling 
My feet to paths unknown, 

Thou who hast made my home of life so 
pleasant, 

Leave not its tenant when its walls decay; 

O Love Divine, O Helper ever present, 

Be Thou my strength and stay 1 

Be near me when all else is from me drift¬ 
ing: 

Earth, sky, home’s pictures, days of shade 
and shine, 

And kindly faces to my own uplifting 
The love which answers mine. 

I have but Thee, my Father! let Thy 
Spirit 

Be with me then to comfort and uphold; 


No gate of pearl, no branch of palm I merit, 
Nor street of shining gold. 

Suffice it if—my good and ill unreckoned, 
And both forgiven through Thy abound¬ 
ing grace— 

I find myself by hands familiar beckoned 
Unto my fitting place. 

Some humble door among Thy many man¬ 
sions, 

Some sheltering shade where sin and 
striving cease, 

And flows forever through heaven’s green 
expansions 

The river of Thy peace. 

There, from the music round about me steal¬ 
ing, 

I fain would learn the new and holy song, 
And find at last, beneath Thy trees of heal¬ 
ing, 

The life for which I long. 

John CT. Whittier. 

Psalm lXXXVII. 

Glorious things of thee are spoken, 

Zion, city of our God ; 

He, whose word cannot be broken, 

Form’d thee for His own abode: 

On the Rock of Ages founded, 

What can shake thy sure repose ? 

With salvation’s walls surrounded, 

Thou mayst smile at all thy foes. 

Bee, the streams of living waters, 
Springing from eternal love, 

Well supply thy sons and daughters, 

And all fear of want remove : 

Who can faint, while such a river 
Ever flows their thirst t’ assuage: 

! Grace, which, like the Lord the giver, 
Never fails from age to age? 

' Round each habitation hovering, 

See the cloud and fire appear, 

For a glory and a covering: 

Showing that the Lord is near. 

Thus deriving from their banner 
Light by night, and shade by day, 

Safe they feed upon the manna, 

Which He gives them when they pray. 





PSALMS AND HYMNS AND SPIRITUAL SONGS.' 


619 


Blest inhabitants of Zion, 

Wash’d in the Redeemer’s blood! 
Jesus, whom their souls rely on, 

Makes them kings and priests to God: 
'Tis his love his people raises 
Over self to reign as kings, 

And as priests, his solemn praises 
Each for a thank-off’ring brings. 

Saviour, if of Zion’s city 

I, through grace, a member am, 

Let the world deride or pity, 

I will glory in Thy Name ; 

Fading is the worldling’s pleasure, 

All his boasted pomp and show; 

Solid joys and lasting treasure 
None but Zion’s children know. 

John Newton. 

There is a Happy Land. 

There is a happy land, 

Far, far away, 

Where saints in glory stand, 

Bright, bright as day. 

Oh, how they sweetly sing, 

Worthy is our Saviour King ; 

Loud let his praises ring— 

Praise, praise for aye ! 

Come to this happy land— 

Come, come away; 

Why will ye doubting stand, 

Why still delay ? 

Oh, we shall happy be, 

When, from sin and sorrow free, 
Lord, we shall live with Thee— 
Blest, blest for aye. 

Bright in that happy land 
Beams every eye: 

Kept by a Father’s hand, 

Love cannot die. 

On, then, to glory run ; 

Be a crown and kingdom won ; 

And, bright above the sun, 

Reign, reign for aye. 

Andrew Young. 

There is a Land of Pure 
Delight. 

There is a laud of pure delight. 
Where saints immortal reign, 


Infinite day excludes the night, 

And pleasures banish pain. 

There everlasting spring abides, 

And never-withering flowers; 

Death, like a narrow sea, divides 
This heavenly land from ours. 

Sweet fields beyond the swelling flood 
Stand dress’d in living green : 

So to the Jews old Canaan stood, 

While Jordan roll’d between. 

But timorous mortals start and shrink 
To cross this narrow sea, 

And linger shivering on the brink, 

And fear to launch away. 

Oh could we make our doubts remove, 
These gloomy doubts that rise, 

And see the Canaan that we love 
With unbeclouded eyes,— 

Could we but climb where Moses stood, 
And view the landscape o’er,— 

Not Jordan’s stream, nor death’s cold 
flood, 

Should fright us from the shore. . 

Isaac Watts. 

“ Ashamed of Me." 

Jesus! and shall it ever be, 

A mortal man ashamed of Thee? 

Scorned be the thought by rich and poor; 
Oh may I scorn it more and more! 

Ashamed of Jesus! sooner far 
Let evening blush to own a star. 

Ashamed of Jesus! just as soon 
Let midnight blush to think of noon. 

’Tis evening with my soul till He, 

That Morning Star, bids darkness flee; 

He sheds the beam of noon Divine 
O’er all this midnight soul of mine. 

Ashamed of Jesus! shall yon field 
Blush when it thinks who bids it yield ? 
Yet blush I must, while I adore; 

I blush to think I yield no more. 

Ashamed of Jesus! of that Friend 
On whom for heaven my hopes depend! 




020 


FIRESIDE ENCYCLOPAEDIA OF POETRY. 


It must not be! be this my shame, 

That I no more revere His name. 

Ashamed of Jesus! yet I may, 

When I’ve no crimes to wash away; 

No tear to wipe, no joy to crave, 

No fears to quell, no soul to save. 

Till then (nor is the boasting vain), 

Till then, I boast a Saviour slain; 

And oh, may this my portion be, 

That Saviour not ashamed of me! 

Joseph Grigg. 


Psalm LXXXIV. 

Pleasant are Thy courts above, 

In the land of light and love; 

Pleasant are Thy courts below, 

In this land of sin and woe. 

Oh, my spirit longs and faints 
For the converse of Thy saints, 

For the brightness'of Thy face, 

For Thv fulness, God of grace! 

Happy birds that sing and fly 
Round Thy altars, O Most High! 
Happier soids that find a rest 
In a Heavenly Father’s breast! 

Like the wandering dove, that found 
No repose on earth around, 

They can to their ark repair, 

And enjoy it ever there. 

Happy souls! their praises flow 
Even in this vale of woe; 

Waters in the desert rise, 

Manna feeds them from the skies: 

On they go from strength to strength, 
Till they reach Thy throne at length, 
At Thy feet adoring fall, 

Who has led them safe through all. 

Lord! be mine this prize to win ! 
Guide me through a world of sin! 
Keep me by Thy saving grace; 

Give me at Thy side a place: 

Sun and Shield alike Thou art; 

Guide and guard my erring heart! 
Grace and glory flow from Thee ; 
Shower, oh shower them, Lord, on me! 

Henry Francis Lyte. 


Praise for the Fountain Opened. 

ZECH. XIII. 1. 

There is a fountain filled with blood 
Drawn from Emmanuel’s veins; 

And sinners, plunged beneath that flood, 
Lose all their guilty stains. 

The dying thief rejoiced to see 
That fountain in his day; 

And there have I, as vile as he, 

Washed all my sins away. 

Dear dying Lamb, thy precious blood 
Shall never lose its power, 

Till all the ransomed Church of God 
Be saved to sin no more. 

E’er since, by faith, I saw the stream 
Thy flowing wounds supply, 

Redeeming love has been my theme, 

And shall be till I die. 

Then in a nobler, sweeter song 
I’ll sing thy power to save, 

When this poor lisping, stammering 
tongue 

Lies silent in the grave. 

Lord, I believe thou hast prepared 
(Unworthy though I be) 

For me a blood-bought, free reward, 

A golden harp for me! 

’Tis strung, and tuned for endless years, 
And formed by power divine, 

To sound in God the Father’s ears 
No other name but thine. 

William Cowper, 

11 Come unto Met 

I heard the voice of Jesus say, 

“ Come unto me and rest; 

Lay down, thou weary one, lay down 
Thy head upon my breast.” 

I came to Jesus as I was, 

Weary and worn and sad ; 

I found in Him a resting-place, 

And He has made me glad. 

I heard the voice of Jesus say, 

“ Behold, I freely give 

The living water ; thirsty one, 

Stoop down, and drink and live” 





"PSALMS AND HYMNS AND SPIRITUAL SONGS.' 


621 


I came to Jesus, and I drank 
Of that life-giving stream; 

My thirst was quenched, my soul revived, 
And now I live in Him. 

I heard the voice of Jesus say, 

“ I am this dark world’s light; 

Look unto me, thy morn shall rise. 

And all thy days be bright.” 

I looked to Jesus, and I found 
In Him my Star, my Sun ; 

And in that light of life I’ll walk 
Till travelling days are done. 

Horatius Bonar. 

Epiphany. 

As with gladness men of old 
Did the guiding star behold ; 

As with joy they hailed its light, 
Leading onward, beaming bright; 

So, most gracious Lord, may we 
Evermore be led to Thee. 

As with joyful steps they sped 
To that lonely manger bed, 

There to bend the knee before 
Him whom heaven and earth adore; 
So may we with willing feet, 

Ever seek the mercy-seat. 

As they offered gifts most rare 
At that manger rude and bare; 

So may we with holy joy, 

Pure, and free from sin’s alloy, 

All our costliest treasures bring, 
Christ, to thee, our heavenly King. 

Holy Jesus ! every day 
Keep us in the narrow way; 

And, when earthly things are past, 
Bring our ransomed souls at last 
Where they need no star to guide, 
Where no clouds Thy glory hide. 

William Chattf.rton Dix. 


Psalm c. 

all people that on earth do dwell, 

Sing to the Lord with cheerful voice: 
Him serve with fear, His praise forth tell, 
Come ye before Him and rejoice. 


The Lord ye know is God indeed; 
Without our aid, he did us make: 

We are His folk, he doth us feed, 

And for his sheep He doth us take. 

Oh, enter then His gates with praise, 
Approach with joy his courts unto; 

Praise, laud, and bless, His name always, 
For it is seemly so to do. 

For w'hy? the Lord our God is good, 

His mercy is for ever sure: 

His truth at all times firmly stood, 

And shall Trorn age to age endure. 

William Kethe. 

A Hymn to God the Father. 

Wilt thou forgive that sin where I begun 

Which was my sin, though it were done 
before? 

Wilt thou forgive that sin, through which 
I run 

And do run still, though still I do 
deplore ? 

When thou hast done, thou hast not done; 

For I have more. 

Wilt thou forgive that sin, which I have 
won 

Others to sin, and made my sin their 
door? 

Wilt thou forgive that sin, which I did 
shun 

A year or two, but wallowed in a score ? 

When thou hast done, thou hast not done; 

For I have more. 

I have a sin of fear, that when I’ve spun 

My last thread, I shall perish on the 
shore; 

But swear by thyself, that at my death thy 
Son 

Shall shine, as he shines now and hereto¬ 
fore : 

And having done that, thou hast done; 

I fear no more. 

John Donn? 

Praise. 

Worship, honor, glory, blessing. 

Be to Him who reigns above ! 

Young and old Thy Name confessing, 
Saviour! let us share Thy love! 






622 


FIBESIDE ENCYCLOPAEDIA OF POETRY. 


As the saints in heaven adore Thee, 
We would bow before Thy throne; 

As Thine angels bow before Thee, 

So on earth Thy will be done! 

Edward Osler. 

The New Jerusalem; 

Or, the Soul's Breathing after the 
Heavenly Country. 

“Since Christ’s fair truth needs no man’s art, 
Take this rude song in better part.” 

O mother dear, Jerusalem, 

AVhen shall I come to thee? 

When shall my sorrows have an end— 
Thy joys when shall I see? 

O happy harbor of Cfod’s saints ! 

O sweet and pleasant soil! 

In thee no sorrows can be found— 

No grief, no care, no toil. 

In thee no sickness is at all, 

No hurt, nor any sore ; 

There is no death nor ugly night, 

But life for evermore. 

No dimming cloud o’ershadows thee, 
No cloud nor darksome night, 

But every soul shines as the sun—• 

For God himself gives light. 

There lust and lucre cannot dwell, 
There envy bears no sway ; 

There is no hunger, thirst, nor heat, 
But pleasures every way. 

Jerusalem ! Jerusalem ! 

Would God I w r ere in thee 

Oh ! that my sorrows had an end, 

Thy joys that I might see ! 

No pains, no pangs, no grieving grief, 
No woeful night is there ; 

No sigh, no sob, no cry is heard— 

No well-away, no fear. 

Jerusalem the city is 
Of God our King alone ; 

The Lamb of God, the light thereof, 
Sits there upon His throne. 

O God ! that I Jerusalem 
With speed may go behold ! 

For why ? the pleasures there abound 
Which here cannot be told. 

Thy turrets and thy pinnacles 
With carbuncles do shine— 


With jasper, pearl, and chrysolite, 
Surpassing pure and fine. 

Thy houses are of ivory, 

Thy windows crystal clear, 

Thy streets are laid with beaten gold— 
There angels do appear. 

Thy walls are made of precious stone, 
Thy bulwarks diamond square, 

Thy gates are made of orient pearl—• 

O God ! if I were there ! 

Within thy gates nothing can come 
That is not passing clean ; 

No spider’s web, no dirt, nor dust, 

No filth may there be seen. 

Jehovah, Lord, now come away, 

And end my griefs and plaints— 

Take me to Thy Jerusalem, 

And place me with Thy saints ! 

Who there are crown’d with glory greaV, 
And see God face to face, 

They triumph still, and aye rejoice— 
Most happy is their case. 

But we that are in banishment 
Continually do moan ; 

We sigh, we mourn, we sob, we weep— 
Perpetually we groan. 

Our sweetness mixfed is with gall, 

Our pleasures are but pain, 

Our joys not worth the looking on—• 
Our sorrows aye remain. 

But there they live in such delight, 

Such pleasure and such play, 

That unto them a thousand years 
Seems but as yesterday. 

O my sweet home, Jerusalem ! 

Thy joys when shall I see— 

The King sitting upon His throne, 

And thy felicity ? 

Thy vineyards, and thy orchards, 

So wonderfully rare, 

A re furnish’d with all kinds of fruit, 
Most beautifully fair. 

Thy gardens and thy goodly walks 
Continually are green ; 

There grow such sweet and pleasant 
flowers 

As nowhere else are seen. 

There cinnamon and sugar grow, 

There nard and balm abound; 






“PSALMS AND HYMNS AND SPIRITUAL SONGS.' 


023 


No tongue can tell, no heart can think, 
The pleasures there are found. 

There nectar and ambrosia spring— 
There music’s ever sweet; 

There many a fair and dainty thing 
Is trod down under feet. 

Quite through the streets, with pleasant 
sound, 

The flood of life doth flow ; 

Upon the banks, on every side, 

The trees of life do grow. 

These trees each month yield ripen’d 
fruit— 

For evermore they spring; 

And all the nations of the world 
To thee their honors bring. 

Jerusalem, God’s dwelling-place, 

Full sore I long to see ; 

Oh ! that my sorrows had an end, 

That I might dwell in thee! 

There David stands, with harp in 
hand, 

As master of the choir ; 

A thousand times that man were blest 
That might his music hear. 

There Mary sings “ Magnificat,” 

With tunes surpassing sweet; 

And all the virgins bear their part, 
Singing about her feet. 

“ Te Deum ” doth St. Ambrose sing, 

St. Austin doth the like ; 

Old Simeon and Zacharie 
Have not their songs to seek. 

There Magdalene hath left her moan, 
And cheerfully doth sing, 

With all blest saints whose harmony 
Through every street doth ring. 

Jerusalem ! Jerusalem ! 

Thy joys fain would I see ; 

/ Come quickly, Lord, and end my grief, 
And take me home to Thee ; 

Oh ! paint Thy name on my forehead, 
And take me hence away, 

That I may dwell Avith Thee in bliss, 
And sing Thy praises aye. 

Jerusalem, the happy home— 

Jehovah’s throne on high ! 


O sacred city, queen, and wife 
Of Christ eternally ! 

O comely queen with glory clad, 

With honor and degree, 

All fair thou art, exceeding bright— 

No spot there is in thee! 

I long to see Jerusalem, 

The comfort of us all ; 

For thou art fair and beautiful— 

None ill can thee befall. 

In thee, Jerusalem, I say, 

No darkness dare appear— 

No night, no shade, no winter foul— 

No time doth alter there. 

No candle needs, no moon to shine, 

No glittering star to light; 

For Christ, the King of righteousness, 
For ever shinetli bright. 

A Lamb unspotted, white and pure 
To Thee doth stand in lieu 
Of light—so great the glory is 
Thine heavenly King to view. 

He is the King of kings, beset 
In midst His servants’ sight; 

And they, His happy household all, 

Do serve Him day and night. 

There, there the choir of angels sing— 
There the supernal sort 
Of citizens, which hence are rid 
From dangers deep, do sport. 

There be the prudent prophets all, 

The apostles six and six, 

The glorious martyrs in a row, 

And confessors betwixt. 

There doth the crew of righteous men 
And matrons all consist— 

Young men and maids that here on 
earth 

Their pleasures did resist. 

The sheep and lambs, that hardly 
’scaped 

The snare of death and hell, 

Triumph in joy eternally, 

Whereof no tongue can tell; 

And though the glory of each one 
Doth differ in degree, 

Yet is the joy of all alike 
And common, as we see 








24 


FIRESIDE ENCYCLOPAEDIA OF POETRY. 


There love and charity do reign, 

And Christ is all in all, 

Whom they most perfectly behold 
In joy celestial. 

They love, they praise—they praise, they 
love; 

They “ Holy, holy,” cry ; 

They neither toil, nor faint, nor end, 

But laud continually. 

Oh ! happy thousand times were I, 

If, after wretched days, 

I might with listening ears conceive 
Those heavenly songs of praise, 

Which to the eternal King are sung 
By happy wights above, 

By savfed souls and angels sweet, 

Who love the God of love. 

Oh ! passing happy were my state, 

Might I be worthy found 
To wait upon my God and King, 

His praises there to sound ; 

And to enjoy my Christ above, 

His favor and His grace, 

According to His promise made, 

Which here I interlace : 

‘‘0 Father dear,” quoth he, “ let them 
Which Thou hast put of old 
To me, be there where lo ! I am— 

Thy glory to behold ; 

Which I with Thee before the world 
Was made in perfect wise, 

Have had—from whence the fountain 
great 

Of glory doth arise.” 

Again : “ If any man will serve 
Thee, let him follow Me ; 

For where I am, he there, right sure, 
Then shall My servant be.” 

And still: “ If any man loves Me, 

Him loves My Father dear, 

Whom I do love—to him Myself* 

In glory will appear.” 

Lord, take away my misery, 

That then I may be bold 
With Thee, in Thy Jerusalem, 

Thy glory to behold ; 

And so in Zion see my King, 

My love, my Lord, my all— 


Where now as in a glass I see, 

There face to face I shall. 

Oh ! blessed are the pure in heart— 
Their Sovereign they shall see ; 

O ye most happy, heavenly wights, 
Which of God’s household be ! 

O Lord, with speed dissolve my bands, 
These gins and fetters strong ; 

For I have dwelt within the tents 
Of Kedar over long. 

Yet search me, Lord, and find me out * 
Fetch me Thy fold unto, 

That all Thy angels may rejoice, 

While all Thy will I do. 

O mother dear ! Jerusalem ! 

When shall I come to thee ? 

When shall my sorrows have an end, 
Thy joys when shall I see ? 

Yet once again I pray Thee, Lord, 

To quit me from all strife, 

That to Thy hill I may attain, 

And dwell there all my life— 

With cherubims and seraphims 
And holy souls of men, 

To sing Thy praise, 0 God of hosts ! 
For ever and amen ! 

Author Unknown. 

The Celestial Country .; 

The world is very evil; 

The times are waxing late: 

Be sober and keep vigil; 

The Judge is at the gate: 

The Judge that comes in mercy, 

The Judge that comes with might 
To terminate the evil, 

To diadem the right. 

When the just and gentle Monarch 
Shall summon from the tomb, 

Let man, the guilty, tremble, 

For Man, the God, shall doom. 
Arise, arise, good Christian ! 

Let right to wrong succeed; 

Let penitential sorrow 
To heavenly gladness lead; 

To the light that hath no evening, 
That knows nor moon nor sun, 

The light so new and golden, 

The light that is but one. 







PSALMS AND HYMNS AND SPIRITUAL SONGS.' 


62 a 


And when the Sole-Begotten 
Shall render up once more 
The kingdom to the Father 
Whose own it was before,— 

Then glory yet unheard of 
Shall shed abroad its ray, 
Resolving all enigmas, 

An endless Sabbath-day. 

Then, then from his oppressors 
The Hebrew shall go free, 

And celebrate in triumph 
The year of Jubilee; 

And the sunlit land that recks not 
Of tempest nor of fight, 

Shall fold within its bosom 
Each happy Israelite: 

The home of fadeless splendor, 

Of flowers that fear no thorn, 
Where they shall dwell as children, 
Who here as exiles mourn. 

Midst power that knows no limit, 
And wisdom free from bound, 
The Beatific vision 
Shall glad the saints around : 

The peace of all the faithful, 

The calm of all the blest, 
Inviolate, unvaried, 

Divinest, sweetest, best. 

Yes, peace! for war is needless,—- 
Yes, calm ! for storm is past,— 
And goal from finish’d labor, 

And anchorage at last. 

That peace—but who may claim it ? 

The guileless in their way, 

Who keep the ranks of battle, 

Who mean the thing they say: 
The peace that is for heaven, 

And shall be for the earth : 

The palace that re-echoes 
With festal song and mirth; 

The garden, breathing spices, 

The paradise on high ; 

Grace beautified to glory, 

Unceasing minstrelsy. 

There nothing can be feeble, 

There none can ever mourn, 
There nothing is divided, 

There nothing can be torn: 

’Tis fury, ill, and scandal, 

’Tis peaceless peace below ; 

Peace, endless, strifeless, ageless, 
The halls of Sion know : 

40 


0 happy, holy portion, 

Refection for the blest; 

True vision of true beauty, 

Sweet cure of all distrest! 

Strive, man, to win that glory ; 

Toil, man, to gain that light; 

Send hope before to grasp it, 

Till hope be lost in sight: 

Till Jesus gives the portion 
Those blessed souls to fill, 

The insatiate, yet satisfied, 

The full, yet craving still. 

That fulness and that craving 
Alike are free from pain, 

Where thou, midst heavenly citizens, 

A home like theirs shalt gain. 

Here is the warlike trumpet; 

There, life set free from sin ; 

When to the last Great Supper 
The faithful shall come in : 

When the heavenly net is laden 
With fishes many and great; 

So glorious in its fulness, 

Yet so inviolate: 

And the perfect from the shatter’d, 

And the fall’n from them that stand, 
And the sheep-flock from the goat-herd 
Shall part on either hand ! 

And these shall pass to torment, 

And those shall triumph, then ; 

The new peculiar nation, 

Blest number of blest men. 
Jerusalem demands them: 

They paid the price on earth, 

And now shall reap the harvest 
In blissfulness and mirth: 

The glorious holy people, 

Who evermore relied 
Upon their Chief and Father, 

The King, the Crucified: 

The sacred ransom’d number 
Now bright with endless sheen, 

Who made the Cross their watchword 
Of Jesus Nazarene: 

Who, fed with heavenly nectar, 

Where soul-like odors play, 

Draw out the endless leisure 
Of that long vernal day: 

And through the sacred lilies, 

And flowers on every side, 

The happy dear-bought people 
Go wandering far and wide. 




<526 


FIRESIDE ENCYCLOPAEDIA OF POETRY. 


Their breasts are filled with gladness, 
Their mouths are tuned to praise, 
What time, now safe for ever, 

On former sins they gaze: 

The fouler was the error, 

The sadder was the fall, 

The ampler are the praises 
Of Him who pardon’d all. 

Their one and only anthem, 

The fulness of His love, 

Who gives instead of torment 
Eternal joys above; 

Instead of torment, glory ; 

Instead of death, that life 
Wherewith your happy country, 

True Israelites, is rife. 

Brief life is here our portion, 

Brief sorrow, short-lived care, 

The life that knows no ending, 

The tearless life, is there. 

O happy retribution! 

Short toil, eternal rest, 

For mortals and for sinners 
A mansion with the blest! 

That we should look, poor wand’rers, 
To have our home on high ! 

That worms should seek for dwellings 
Beyond the starry sky ! 

To all one happy guerdon 
Of one celestial grace ; 

For all, for all, who mourn their fall, 
Is one eternal place ; 

And martyrdom hath roses 
Upon that heavenly ground, 

And white and virgin lilies 
For virgin-souls abound. 

There grief is turn’d to pleasure, 
Such pleasure as below 
No human voice can utter, 

No human heart can know; 

And after fleshly scandal, 

And after this world’s night, 

And after storm and whirlwind, 

Is calm, and joy, and light. 

And now we fight the battle, 

But then shall wear the crown 
Of full and everlasting 
And passionless renown; 

And now we watch and struggle, 

And now we live in hope, 


I And Sion, in her anguish, 

With Babylon must cope; 

But He whom now we trust in 
Shall then be seen and known, 
And they that know and see Him 
Shall have Him for their own. 
The miserable pleasures 
Of the body shall decay ; 

The bland and flattering struggles 
Of the flesh shall pass away, 
And none shall there be jealous, 
And none shall there contend ; 
Fraud, clamor, guile—what say I? 

All ill, all ill shall end! 

And there is David’s Fountain, 
And life in fullest glow, 

And there the light is golden, 

And milk and honey flow; 

The light that hath no evening, 
The health that hath no sore, 
The life that hath no ending, 

But lasteth evermore. 


There Jesus shall embrace us, 

There Jesus be embraced,— 

That sjairit’s food and sunshine 
Whence earthly love is chased. 
Amidst the happy chorus. 

A place, however low, 

Shall show Him us, and showing, 
Shall satiate evermo. 

By hope we struggle onward, 

While here we must be fed 
By milk, as tender infants, 

But there by Living Bread. 

The night was full of terror, 

The morn is bright with gladness: 
The Cross becomes our harbor, 

And we triumph after sadness, 
And Jesus to His true ones 
Brings trophies fair to see, 

And Jesus shall be loved, and 
Beheld in Galilee; 

Beheld, when morn shall waken, 
And shadows shall decay, 

And each true-hearted servant 
Shall shine as doth the day; 

And every ear shall hear it,— 
Behold thy King’s array, 

Behold thy God in beauty, 

The Law hath past away 1 






PSALMS AMD HYMNS AND SPIRITUAL SONGS. 


02 7 


Yes! God my King and Portion, 
In fulness of His grace, 

We then shall see for ever, 

And worship face to face. 

Then Jacob into Israel, 

From earthlier self estranged, 
And Leah into Rachel, 

For ever shall be changed : 
Then all the halls of Sion 
For aye shall be complete, 
And, in the Land of Beauty, 

All things of beauty meet. 


For thee, oh dear dear Country! 
Mine eyes their vigils keep; 

For very love, beholding 
Thy happy name, they weep : 

The mention of thy glory 
Is unction to the breast, 

And medicine in sickness, 

And love, and life, and rest. 

O one, O onely Mansion ! 

O Paradise of Joy! 

Where tears are ever banish’d, 

And smiles have no alloy; 

Beside thy living waters 
All plants are, great and small, 

The cedar of the forest, 

The hyssop of the wall: 

With jaspers glow thy bulwarks; 
Thy streets with emeralds blaze; 

The sardius and the topaz 
Unite in thee their rays: 

Thine ageless walls ere bonded 
With amethyst unpriced: 

Thy Saints build up its fabric, 

And the corner-stone is Christ. 

The Cross is all thy splendor, 

The Crucified thy praise: 

His laud and benediction 
Thy ransom’d people raise: 

Jesus, the Gem of Beauty, 

True God and Man, they sing : 

The never-failing Garden, 

The ever-golden Ring: 

The Door, the Pledge, the Husband, 
The Guardian of his Court: 

The Day-star of Salvation, 

The Porter and the Port. 

Thou hast no shore, fair ocean! 

Thou hast no time, bright day! 


Dear fountain of refreshment 
To pilgrims far away ! 

Upon the Rock of Ages 
They raise thy holy tower: 
Thine is the victor’s laurel, 

And thine the golden dower? 
Thou feel’st in mystic rapture, 

O Bride that know’st no guile, 
The Prince’s sweetest kisses, 

The Prince’s loveliest smile; 
Unfading lilies, bracelets 
Of living pearl thine own; 

The Lamb is ever near thee, 

The Bridegroom thine alone; 
The Crown is He to guerdon, 
The Buckler to protect, 

And He Himself the Mansion 
And He the Architect. 

The only art thou needest, 
Thanksgiving for thy lot: 

The only joy thou seekest, 

The Life where Death is not: 
And all thine endless leisure 
In sweetest accents sings, 

The ill that was thy merit,— 

The wealth that is thy King’s I 


Jerusalem the golden, 

With milk and honey blest, 
Beneath thy contemplation 
Sink heart and voice oppress’d: 
I know not, oh I know not, 

What social joys are there; 
What radiancy of glory, 

What light beyond compare ! 
And when I fain would sing them, 
My spirit fails and faints; 

And vainly would it image 
The assembly of the Saints. 
They stand, those halls of Sion, 
Conjubilant with song, 

And bright with many an angel, 
And all the martyr throng: 

The Prince is ever in them ; 

The daylight is serene ; 

The pastures of the Blessed 
Are deck’d in glorious sheen. 
There is the Throne of David,— 
And there, from care released, 
The song of them that triumph, 
The shout of them that feast; 








G28 


FIRESIDE ENCYCLOPAEDIA OF POETRY. 


And they who, with their Leader, 
Have conquer’d in the fight, 

For ever and for ever 

Are clad in robes of white ! 

0 holy, placid harp-notes 
Of that eternal hymn ! 

0 sacred, sweet refection, 

And peace of Seraphim ! 

O thirst for ever ardent, 

Yet evermore content! 

O true peculiar vision 
Of God cunctipotent! 

Ye know the many mansions 
For many a glorious name, 

And divers retributions 
That divers merits claim : 

For midst the constellations 
That deck our earthly skv, 

This star than that is brighter,— 
And so it is on high. 

Jerusalem the glorious! 

The glory of the Elect! 

O dear and future vision 
That eager hearts expect: 

Even now by faith I see thee: 
Even here thy walls discern : 

To thee my thoughts are kindled, 
And strive and pant and yearn : 

Jerusalem the onely, 

That look’st from heaven below, 

In thee is all my glory ; 

In me is all my woe : 

And though my body may not, 

My spirit seeks thee fain, 

Till flesh and earth return me 
To earth and flesh again. 

Oh none can tell thy bulwarks, 
How gloriously they rise : 

Oh none can tell thy capitals 
Of beautiful device: 

Thy loveliness oppresses 

All human thought and heart: 

And none, O Peace, O Sion, 

Can sing thee as thou art. 

New mansion of new people, 
Whom God’s own love and light 

Promote, increase, make holy, 
Identify, unite. 

Thou City of the Angels ! 

Thou City of the Lord I 


Whose everlasting music 
Is the glorious decachord ! 

And there the band of Prophets 
United praise ascribes, 

And there the twelvefold chorus 
Of Israel’s ransom’d tribes: 

The lily-beds of virgins, 

The roses’ martyr-glow, 

The cohort of the Fathers 
Who kept the faith below. 

And there the Sole-Begotten 
Is Lord in regal state ; 

He, Judah’s mystic Lion, 

He, Lamb Immaculate. 

O fields that know no sorrow ! 

O state that fears no strife ! 

O princely bow’rs ! O land of flow’rs ! 
0 realm and home of life ! 

Jerusalem, exulting 
On that securest shore, 

I hope thee, wish thee, sing thee, 

And love thee evermore ! 

I ask not for my merit: 

I seek not to deny 
My merit is destruction, 

A child of wrath am I: 

But yet with Faith I venture 
And Hope upon my way ; 

For those perennial guerdons 
I labor night and day. 

The best and dearest Father 
Who made me, and who saved, 

Bore with me in defilement, 

And from defilement laved; 

When in His strength I struggle, 

For very joy I leap, 

When in my sin I totter, 

I weep, or try to weep ; 

And grace, sweet grace celestial, 

Shall all its love display, 

And David’s royal Fountain 
Purge every sin away. 

O mine, my golden Sion ! 

O lovelier far than gold ! 

With laurel-girt battalions, 

And safe victorious fold ; 

O sweet and blessed country, 

Shall I ever see thy face ? 

O sweet and blessed country, 

Shall I ever win thy grace? 




“PSALMS AND HYMNS AND SPIRITUAL SONGS.” 


629 


I have the hope within me 
To comfort and to bless 1 
Shall I ever win the prize itself? 

Oh, tell me, tell me, Yes! 

Exult, O (lust and ashes! 

The Lord shall be thy part; 

His only, His for ever, 

Thou shalt be, and thou art! 
Exult, O dust and ashes ! 

The Lord shall be thy part; 
liis only, His for ever, 

Thou shalt be, and thou art! 
Bernard of Cluny. 
(Translation of John Mason Neale.) 


Quantus tremor est futurus, 
Quando Judex est venturus, 
Cuncta stricte discussurus. 

Tuba mirum spargens sonum 
Per sepulcra regionum, 

Coget omnes ante thronum. 

Mors stupebit, et natura, 
Quum resurget creatura, 
Judicanti responsura. 

Liber scriptus proferetur, 

In quo totum continetur, 
Unde mundus judicetur. 


For the Baptist. 

jtJr* last and greatest herald of heaven’s 
King, 

Girt with rough skins, hies to the desert 
wild, 

Among that savage brood the woods forth 
bring, 

Which he than man more harmless found, 
and mild: 

His food was locusts', and what young doth 
spring, 

With honey that from virgin hills distilled ; 

Parched body, hollow eyes, some uncouth 
thing 

Made him appear long since from earth 
exiled. 

There burst he forth; “ All ye, whoso hopes 
rely 

On God, with me amidst these deserts 
mourn; 

Repent, repent, and from old errors turn.” 

Who listened to his voice, obeyed his cry V 
Only the echoes, which he made relent, 
Rung from their marble caves, “ Repent, 
repent! ” 

William Drummond, of Hawthornden. 

Dies Iras. 


Juclex ergo cum sedebit, 
Quidquid latet, apparebit: 

Nil inultum remanebit. 

Quid sum, miser ! tunc dicturus, 
Quern patronum rogaturus, 
Quum vix justus sit securus ? 

Rex tremendte majestatis, 

Qui salvandos salvas gratis, 
Salva me, fons pietatis ! 

Recordare, Jesu pie, 

Quod sum causa tuse vise ; 

Ne me perdas ilia die ! 

Quserens me, sedisti lassus, 
Redemisti, crucem passus: 
Tantus labor non sit cassus. 

Juste Judex ultionis, 

Donum fac remissionis 
Ante diem rationis. 

Ingemisco tanquam reus, 

Culpa rubet vultus meus, 
Supplicant! parce, Deus! 

Qui Mariam absolvisti, 

Et latronem exaudisti, 

Mihi quoque spem dedisti. 


Dies Irae, Dies Ilia, dies tribulationis et angustiae, 
dies calamitatis et miseriae, dies tenebraruru et cali- 
ginis, dies nebulae et turbinis, dies tubse et clangoris 
super eivitatis muuitas, et super angulos excelsos!— 
Sophonia, i. 15, 16. 

Dies Irte, Dies Ilia! 

Solvet sseclum in favilla, 

Teste David cum Sybilla. 


Preces meoe non sunt dignse, 
Sed Tu bonus fac benigne 
Ne perenni cremer igne ! 

Inter oves locum praesta, 

Et ab htedis me sequestra, 
Statuens in parte dextra. 






330 


FIRESIDE ENCYCLOPAEDIA OF POETRY. 


Confutatis maledictis, 

Flammis acribus addictis, 

Voca me cum benedictis ! 

Oro supplex et acclinis, 

Cor contritum quasi cinis, 

Gere curam mei finis. 

Lacrymosa dies ilia! 

Qua resurget ex favilbt. 

Judicandus homo reus; 

Huic ergo parce, Deus ! 

Thomas de Celano. 

Dies Ira:. 

Translation of William J. Irons. 

Day of wrath ! 0 day of mourning! 

See! once more the Cross returning, 
Heaven and earth in ashes burning ! 

Oh what fear man’s bosom rendetli 
When from Heaven the Judge descendetli, 
On whose sentence all dependeth ! 

Wondrous sound the Trumpet flingeth, 
Through earth’s sepulchres it ringeth, 

All before the throne it bringeth ! 

Death is struck, and Nature quaking, 

All creation is awaking, 

To its Judge an answer making ! 

Lo, the Book, exactly worded ! 

Wherein all hath been recorded ; 

Thence shall judgment be awarded. 

"When the Judge His seat attaineth, 

And each hidden deed arraigneth, 

Nothing unavenged remaineth. 

What shall I, frail man, be pleading, 

Who for me be interceding, 

When the just are mercy needing? 

King of Majesty tremendous, 

Who dost free salvation send us, 

Fount of pity! then befriend us! 

Think! kind Jesu, my salvation 
Caused Thy wondrous incarnation ; 

Leave me not to reprobation! 

Faint and weary Thou hast sought me, 

On the Cross of suffering bought me, 

Shall such grace be vainly brought me? 


Righteous Judge of retribution, 

Grant Thy gift of absolution, 

Ere that reck’uing day’s conclusion ! 

Guilty, now I pour my moaning, 

All my shame with anguish owning ; 
Spare, 0 God, Thy suppliant groaning ! 

Thou the sinful woman savedst, 

Thou the dying thief forgavest; 

And to me a hope vouchsafest! 

Worthless are my prayers and sighing, 
Yet, good Lord, in grace complying, 
Rescue me from fires undying! 

With Thy favor’d sheep, oh place me! 
Nor among the goats abase me; 

But to Thy right hand upraise me. 

While the wicked are confounded, 
Doom’d to flames of woe unbounded, 
Call me ! with Thy saints surrounded. 

Low I kneel with heart submission ; 

See, like ashes, my contrition ; 

Help me, in my last condition ! 

Ah ! that Day of tears and mourning! 
From the dust of earth returning, 

Man for judgment must prepare him ; 
Spare, 0 God, in mercy spare him ! 

Lord, who didst our souls redeem, 

Grant a blessed Requiem ! Amen. 


Dies Iras. 

Paraphrase of Sir Walter Scott. 

That day of wrath, that dreadful day, 
When heaven and earth shall pass away, 
What power shall be the sinner’s stay ? 
How shall he meet that dreadful day ? 

When, shrivelling like a parchfed scroll, 
The flaming heavens together roll; 

When louder yet, and yet more dread, 
Swells the high trump that wakes the dead ? 

Oh, on that day, that wrathful day, 

When man to judgment wakes from clay, 
Be Thou the trembling sinner’s stay, 

, Though heaven and earth shall pass away} 





PSALMS AND HYMNS AND SPIRITUAL SONGS: 


G31 


Dies Irye. 

Translation of John A. Dix. 

Day of vengeance, without morrow! 
Earth shall end in flame and sorrow, 

As from saint and seer we borrow. 

Ah ! what terror is impending, 

When the Judge is seen descending, 
And each secret veil is rending! 

To the throne, the trumpet sounding, 
Through the sepulchres resounding, 
Summons all, with voice astounding. 

Death and Nature, ’mazed, are quaking, 
When, the grave’s long slumber breaking, 
Man to judgment is awaking. 

On the written volume’s pages 
Life is shown in all its stages,— 
Judgment-record of past ages! 

Sits the Judge, the raised arraigning, 
Darkest mysteries explaining, 

Nothing unavenged remaining. 

What shall I then say, unfriended, 

By no advocate attended, 

When the just are scarce defended? 

King of majesty tremendous, 

By Thy saving grace defend us, 

Fount of pity, safety send us! 

Holy Jesus, meek, forbearing, 

For my sins the death-crown wearing, 
Save me, in that day, despairing. 

Worn and weary, Thou hast sought me, 
By Thy cross and passion bought me,— 
Spare the hope Thy labors brought me. 

Righteous Judge of retribution, 

Give, oh, give me absolution 
Ere the day of dissolution. 

As a guilty culprit groaning, 

Flush’d my face, my errors owning, 
Hear, O God, my spirit’s moaning! 

Thou to Mary gav’st remission, 

Heard’st the dying thief’s petition, 
Bad’st me hope in my contrition. 


In my prayers no grace discerning, 
Yet on me Thy favor turning, 

Save my soul from endless burning. 

Give me, when thy sheep confiding 
Thou art from the goats dividing, 

On Thy right a place abiding! 

When the wicked are confounded, 
And by bitter flames surrounded, 

Be my joyful pardon sounded. 

Prostrate, all my guilt discerning, 
Heart as though to ashes turning, 
Save, oh, save me from the burning! 

Day of weeping, when from ashes 
Man shall rise ’mid lightning-flashes, 
Guilty, trembling with contrition, 
Save him, Father, from perdition! 


Lo; He Comes, with Clouds 
DESCENDING! 

Lo! He comes, with clouds descending! 

Hark! the trump of God is blown, 
And th’ Archangel’s voice attending 
Makes the high procession known; 
Sons of Adam! 

Rise, and stand before your God! 

Crowns and sceptres fall before Him, 
Kings and conquerors own His sway; 
Haughtiest monarchs now adore Him, 
While they see His lightnings play: 

How triumphant 
Is the world’s Redeemer now! 

Hear His voice, as mighty thunder 
Sounding in eternal roar, 

While its echo rends in sunder 

Rocks and mountains, sea and shore: 

Hark ! His accents 
Through th’ unfathom’d deep resound! 

“Come, Lord Jesus! Oh come quickly!” 

Oft has pray’d the mourning Bride: 
“Lo !” He answers, “I come quickly!” 
Who Thy coming may abide? 

All who loved Him, 

All who long’d to see His day. 






632 


FIRESIDE ENCYCLOPAEDIA OF POETRY. 


“Come,” he saith, “ye heirs of glory; 
Come, ye purchase of my blood; 
Claim the Kingdom now before you, 
lvfse, and fill the mount of God, 
Fix’d for ever 

Where the Lamb on Sion stands.” 

See! ten thousand burning seraphs 
From their thrones as lightnings fly; 
“Take,” they cry, “ your seats above us, 
Nearest Him that rules the sky!” 

Patient sufferers, 

How rewarded are ye now ! 

Now their trials all are ended: 

Now the dubious warfare’s o’er; 

Joy no more with sorrow blended, 

They shall sigh and weep no more; 
God for ever 

Wipes the tear from every eye. 

Through His passion all victorious 
Now they drink immortal wine; 

In Emmanuel’s likeness glorious 
As the firmanent they shine; 

Shine for ever, 

With the bright and morning Star. 

Shout aloud, ye ethereal choirs! 

Triumph in Jehovah’s praise! 

Kindle all your heavenly fires, 

All your palms of victory raise! 

Shout His conquests, 

Shout salvation to the Lamb! 

In full triumph see them marching 
Through the gates of massy light, 
While the City walls are sparkling 
With meridian glory bright; 

Oh how lovely 

Are the dwellings of the Lamb! 

Hosts angelic all adore Him 
Circling round His orient seat; 
Elders cast their crowns before Him, 
Fall and worship at His feet ; 

O how holy 

And how reverend is Thy Name! 

Hail, Thou Alpha and Omega ! 

First and Last, of all alone ! 

He that is, and was, and shall be, 

And beside whom there is none! 

Take the Glory, 

Great Eternal Three in One! 

Thomas Olivers. 


Lord, Dismiss us with Tiiy 
Blessing. 

Lord, dismiss us with Thy blessing, 
Fill our hearts with joy and peace; 
Let us each, Thy love possessing, 
Triumph in redeeming grace; 

Oh refresh us, 

Travelling through this wilderness. 

Thanks we give, and adoration, 

For Thy gospel’s joyful sound; 

May the fruit of Thy salvation 
In our hearts and lives abound: 

May Thy presence 
With us evermore be found. 

So, whene’er the signal’s given 
Us from earth to call away, 

Borne on angels’ wings to heaven, 
Glad the summons to obey, 

May we ever 

Reign with Christ in endless day. 

Walter Shirley. 


There is a Green Hill. 

There is a green hill far away, 
Without a city wall, 

Where the dear Lord was crucified, 
Who died to save us all. 

We may not know, we cannot tell 
What pains He had to bear, 

But we believe it was for us 
He hung and suffer’d there. 

He died that we might be forgiven, 
He died to make us good, 

That we might go at last to heaven, 
Sav’d by His precious blood. 

There was no other good enough 
To pay the price of sin; 

He only could unlock the gate 
Of heaven, and let us in. 

O dearly, dearly has He lov’d, 

And we must love Him too, 

And trust in His redeeming blood, 
And try His works to do. 

Cecil Frances Alexander. 







Moral and Didactic Poetry. 




Life. 

The World’s a bubble, and the Life of Man 
Less than a span: 

In his conception wretched, from the womb, 
So to the tomb; 

Curst from his cradle, and brought up to 
years 

With cares and fears. 

Who then to frail mortality shall trust, 
But limns on water, or but writes in dust. 

Yet whilst with sorrow here we live opprest, 
What life is best ? 

Courts are but only superficial schools 
To dandle fools: 

The rural parts are turn’d into a den 
Of savage men: 

And where’s a city from foul vice so free, 
But may be term’d the worst of all the 
three ? 

Domestic cares afflict the husband’s bed, 
Or pains his head : 

Those that live single, take it for a curse, 
Or do things worse : 

Some would have children : those that 
have them, moan 
Or wish them gone : 

What is it, then, to have, or have no wife, 
But single thraldom, or a double strife? 

Our own affection still at home to please 
Is a disease: 

To cross the seas to any foreign soil, 

Peril and toil: 

Wars with their noise affright us; when 
they cease, 

We are worse in peace ;— 

What then remains, but that we still 
should cry 

For being born, or, being born, to die? 

Lord Bacon. 


Life. 

Life ! I know not what thou art, 

But know that thou and I must part; 

And when, or how, or where we met 
I own to mc’s a secret yet. 

Life! we’ve been long together, 

Through pleasant and through cloudy 
weather; 

’Tis hard to part when friends are dear— 
Perhaps ’twill cost a sigh, a tear; 

—Then steal away, give little warning, 
Choose thine own time; 

Say not Good-Night,—but in some brighter 
clime 

Bid me Good-Morning. 

Anna Ljetitia Barbauld. 


' My PSAL3I. 

I mourn no more my vanish’d years: 
Beneath a tender rain, 

An April rain of smiles and tears, 

My heart is young again. * 

The west winds blow, and, singing low, 
I hear the glad streams run ; 

The windows of my soul I throw 
Wide open to the sun. 

No longer forward nor behind 
I look in hope or fear; 

But, grateful, take the good I find, 

The best of now and here. 

I plough no more a desert land, 

To harvest weed and tare ; 

The manna dropping from God’s hand 
Rebukes my painful care. 

I break my pilgrim staff,—I lay 
Aside the toiling oar; 


633 





634 


FIRESIDE ENCYCLOPAEDIA OF POETRY 


The angel sought so far away 
I welcome at my door. 

The airs of spring may never play 
Among the ripening corn, 

Nor freshness of the flowers of May 
Blow through the autumn morn ; 

Yet shall the blue-eyed gentian look 
Through fringfcd lids to heaven, 

And the pale aster in the brook 
Shall see its image given ;— 

The woods shall wear their robes of praise, 
The south wind softly sigh, 

And sweet, calm days, in golden haze 
Melt down the amber sky. 

Not less shall manly deed and word 
Rebuke an age of wrong ; 

The graven flowers that wreathe the 
sword 

Make not the blade less strong. 

But smiting hands shall learn to heal,— 

To build as to destroy; 

Nor less my heart for others feel 
That I the more enjoy. 

All as God wills, who wisely heeds 
To give or to withhold, 

And knoweth more of all my needs 
Than all my prayers have told! 

Enough lhat blessings undeserved 
Have mark’d my erring track;— 

That wheresoe’er my feet have swerved, 
His chastening turn’d me back ;— 

That more and more a Providence 
Of love is understood, 

Making the springs of time and sense 
Sweet with eternal good ;— 

That death seems but a .cover’d way 
Which opens into light, 

Wherein no blinded child can stray 
Beyond the Father’s sight;— 

That care and trial seem at last, 

Through Memory’s sunset air, 

Like mountain-ranges overpast, 

In purple distance fair;— 


That all the jarring notes of life 
Seem blending in a psalm, 

And all the angles of its strife 
Slow rounding into calm. 

And so the shadows fall apart, 

And so the west winds play; 

And all the windows of my heart 
I open to the day. 

John Greenleaf Whittier. 

Sonnet. 

Sad is our youth, for it is ever going, 
Crumbling away beneath our very feet; 

Sad is our life, for onward it is flowing 
In current unperceived, because so fleet; 

Sad are our hopes, for they were sweet in 
sowing— 

But tares, self-sown, have overtopp’d the 
wheat; 

Sad are our joys, for they were sweet in 
blowing— 

And still, oh still, their dying breath is 
sweet; 

And sweet is youth, although it hath be¬ 
reft us 

Of that which made our childhood 
sweeter still; 

And sweet is middle life, for it hath left us 
A nearer good to cure an older ill; 

And sweet are all things, when we learn to 
prize them 

Not for their sake, but His who grants 
them or denies them ! 

Aubrey de Verb. 


The Stream of Life. 

O stream descending to the sea, 
Thy mossy banks between, 

The flow’rets blow, the grasses grow, 
The leafy trees are green. 

In garden-plots the children play, 
The fields the laborers till, 

And houses stand on either hand, 
And thou descendest still. 

O life descending into death, 

Our waking eyes behold 
Parent and friend thy lapse attend, 
Companions young and old. 












MORAL AND DIDACTIC POETRY. 


635 


Strong purposes our minds possess, 
Our hearts affections fill; 

We toil and earn, we seek and learn, 
And thou descendest still. 

O end to which our currents tend, 
Inevitable sea 

To which we flow, what do we know, 
What shall we guess of thee ? 

A roar we hear upon thy shore, 

As we our course fulfil; 

Scarce we divine a sun will shine 
And be above us still. 

Arthur Hugh Clough. 

A Psalm of Life. 

What the Heart of the Young Man 

SAID TO THE PSALMIST. 

Tell me not in mournful numbers, 

“ Life is but an empty dream !” 

For the soul is dead that slumbers, 

And things are not what they seem. 

Life is real! Life is earnest! 

And the grave is not its goal; 

“ Dust thou art, to dust returnest,” 

Was not spoken of the soul. 

Not enjoyment, and not sorrow, 

Is our destined end or way ; 

But to act, that each to-morrow 
Finds us farther than to-day. 

Art is long, and time is fleeting, 

And our hearts, though stout and brave, 
Still, like muffled drums, are beating 
Funeral marches to the grave. 

In the world’s broad field of battle, 

In the bivouac of life, 

Be not like dumb, driven cattle, 

Be a hero in the strife ! 

Trust no future, howe’er pleasant! 

Let the dead past bury its dead ! 

Act—act in the living present! 

Heart within, and God o’erhead ! 

Lives of great men all remind us 
We can make our lives sublime, 

And, departing, leave behind us 
Footprints on the sands of time— 


Footprints that perhaps another, 
Sailing o’er life’s solemn main 
A forlorn and shipwreck’d brother, 
Seeing, shall take heart again. 

Let us, then, be up and doing, 

With a heart for any fate ; 

Still achieving, still pursuing, 

Learn to labor and to wait. 

Henry Wadsworth Longfellow. 


Life. 

We are born ; we laugh ; we weep ; 

We love; we droop ; we die ! 

Ah ! wherefore do we laugh or weep ? 

Why do we live or die ? 

Who knows that secret deep ? 

Alas, not I! 

Why doth the violet spring 
Unseen by human eye? 

Why do the radiant seasons bring 
Sweet thoughts that quickly fly ? 
Why do our fond hearts cling 
To things that die? 

We toil—through pain and wrong; 

We fight—and fly ; 

We love ; we lose ; and then, ere long, 
Stone-dead we lie. 

O life ! is all thy song 
“ Endure and—die ?” 

Bryan Waller Procter 
(Barry Cornwall.) 


The Shortness of Life. 

“ He cometh forth like a flower, and is cut down.”—■ 
Job xiv. 2. 

Behold, 

How short a span 
Was long enough of old 
To measure out the life of man ; 

In those well-temper’d days! his tirnt 
was then 

Survey’d, cast up, and found but three¬ 
score years and ten. 

Alas ! 

And what is that? 

They come, and slide, and pass, 
Before my pen can tell thee what. 







63 6 


FIRESIDE ENCYCLOPEDIA OF POETRY. 


The posts of time are swift, which hav¬ 
ing run 

Their seven short stages o’er, their short¬ 
lived task is done. 

Our days 
Begun we lend 
To sleep, to antic plays 
And toys, until the first stage end : 

Twelve waning moons, twice five times 
told, we give 

To unrecover’d loss: we rather breathe 
than live. 

We spend 

A ten years’ breath 
Before we apprehend 
What ’tis to live, or fear a death : 

Our childish dreams are fill’d with 
painted joys, 

Which please our sense a while, and wak¬ 
ing, prove but toys. 

How vain, 

How wretched, is 
Poor man, that doth remain 
A slave to such a state as this ! 

His days are short, at longest; few at 
most : 

They are but bad, at best; yet lavish’d out, 
or lost. 

They be 

The secret springs 
That make our minutes flee 
On wheels more swift than eagles’ 
wings: 

Our life’s a clock, and every gasp of 
breath 

Breathes forth a warning grief, till Time 
shall strike a death. 

How soon 

Our new-born light 
Attains to full-aged noon ! 

And this, how soon to gray-hair’d 
night! 

We spring, we bud, we blossom, and we 
blast, 

Ere we can count our days, our days they 
flee so fast. 


They end 

When scarce begun; 

And ere we apprehend 
That we begin to live, our life is 
done: 

Man, count thy days ; and, if they fly 
too fast 

For thy dull thoughts to count, count 
every day the last. 

Francis Quarles. 


Stanzas. 

My life is like the summer rose 
That opens to the morning sky, 

But, ere the shades of evening close, 

Is scatter’d on the ground—to die ! 

Yet on the rose’s humble bed 
The sweetest dews of night are shed, 

As if she wept the waste to see— 

But none shall weep a tear for me ! 

My life is like the autumn leaf 

That trembles in the moon’s pale ray; 
Its hold is frail—its date is brief, 

Restless—and soon to pass away ! 

Yet, ere that leaf shall fall and fade, 

The parent tree will mourn its shade, 

The winds bewail the leafless tree— 

But none shall breathe a sigh for me ! 

My life is like the prints which feet 
Have left on Tampa’s desert strand ; 
Soon as the rising tide shall beat, 

All trace will vanish from the sand ; 
Yet, as if grieving to efface 
All vestige of the human race, 

On that lone shore loud moans the sea— 
But none, alas ! shall mourn for me ! 

Richard Henry Wilde. 

-- 

The Means to Attain Happy Life. 

Martial, the things that do attain 
The happy life be these, I find — 

The riches left, not got with pain; 

The fruitful ground, the quiet miud; 

The equal friend ; no grudge, no strife; 

No charge of rule, nor governance; 
Without disease, the healthful life; 

The household of continuance ; 










MORAL AND DIDACTIC POETRY. 


637 


The mean diet, no delicate fare; 

True wisdom joined with simpleness; 
The night discharged of all care, 

Where wine the wit may not oppress; 

The faithful wife, without debate; 

Such sleeps as may beguile the night. 
Contented with thine own estate, 

Ne wish for Death, ne fear his might. 

Henry Howard, Earl of Surrey. 


The Web of Life. 

My life, which was so straight and plain, 
Has now become a tangled skein, 

Yet God still holds the thread ; 

Weave as I may, His hand doth guide 
The shuttle’s course, however wide 
The chain in woof be wed. 

One weary night, when months went by, 

I plied my loom with tear and sigh, 

In grief unnamed, untold ; 

But when at last the morning’s light 
Broke on my vision, fair and bright 
There gleamed a cloth of gold. 

And now I never lose my trust, 

Weave as I may—and weave I must— 
That God doth hold the thread ; 

He guides my shuttle on its way, 

He makes complete my task each day ; 
What more, then, can be said ? 

Clara J. Moore. 

There be Those. 

There be those who sow beside 
The waters that in silence glide, 

Trusting no echo will declare 
Whose footsteps ever wandered there. 

The noiseless footsteps pass away, 

The stream flows on as yesterday; 

Nor can it for a time be seen 
A benefactor there had been. 

Yet think not that the seed is dead 
Which in the lonely place is spread; 

It lives, it lives—the spring is nigh, 

And soon its life shall testify. 

That silent stream, that desert ground, 

No more unlovely shall be found; 

But scattered flowers of simplest grace 
Shall spread their beauty round the place. 


And soon or late a time will come 

When witnesses, that now are dumb, 

With grateful eloquence shall tell 

From whom the seed, there scattered, fell. 

Bernard Barton. 

Endurance. 

How much the heart may bear, and yet not 
break! 

How much the flesh may suffer, and not 
die! 

I question much if any pain or ache 

Of soul or body brings our end more nigh: 

Death chooses his own time: till that is 
sworn, 

All evils may be borne. 

i We shrink and shudder at the surgeon’s 
knife, 

Each nerve recoiling from the cruel steel 

Whose edge seems searching for the quiver¬ 
ing life, 

Yet to our sense the bitter pangs reveal, 

That still, although the trembling flesh be 
torn, 

This also can be borne. 

We see a sorrow rising in our way, 

And try to flee from the approaching ill; 

We seek some small escape; we weep and 
pray; 

But when the blow falls, then our hearts 
are still; 

Not that the pain is of its sharpness shorn, 

But that it can be borne. 

AVe wind our life about another life; 

We hold it closer, dearer than our own: 

Anon it faints and fails in deathly strife, 

Leaving us stunned, and stricken, and 
alone; 

But ah! we do not die with those we 
mourn,— 

This also can be borne. 

Behold, we live through all things—famine, 
thirst, 

Bereavement, pain; all grief and misery, 

All woe and sorrow; life inflicts its worst 

On soul and body—but we cannot die. 

Though we be sick, and tired, and faint, 
and worn, 

Lo, all things can be borne. 

Elizabeth Akers Allen, 









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FIRESIDE ENCYCLOPAEDIA OF POETRY 


Good-Night. 

Good-nigiit to all the world! there’s none 
Beneath the “ over-going” sun 
To whom I feel or hate or spite, 

And so to all a fair good-night. 

Would I could say good-night to pain, 
Good-night to conscience and her train, 

To cheerless poverty, and shame 
That I am yet unknown to fame! 

Would I could say good-night to dreams 
That haunt me with delusive gleams, 

That through the sable future’s veil 
Like meteors glimmer, but to fail! 

Would I could say a long good-night 
To halting between wrong and right, 

And, like a giant with new force, 

Awake prepared to run my course! 

But time o’er good and ill sweeps on, 

And when few years have come and gone, 
The past will be to me as naught, 

Whether remember’d or forgot. 

Yet let me hope one faithful friend 
O’er my last couch shall tearful bend; 
And, though no day for me was bright, 
Shall bid me then a long good-night. 

Robert C. Sands. 


IIis Last Verses. 

1 am ! yet what 1 am who cares, or knows? 
My friends forsake me like a memory 
lost. 

I am the self-consumer of my woes, 

They rise and vanish, an oblivious host, 
Shadows of life, whose very soul is lost. 
And yet I am—I live—though I am 
toss’d 

Into the nothingness of scorn and noise, 
Into the living sea of waking dream, 
Where there is neither sense of life nor 

joys, 

But the huge shipwreck of my own es¬ 
teem, 

And all that’s dear. Even those I loved the 
best 

Are strange—nay, they are stranger than 
the rest. 


I long for scenes where man has never 
trod, 

For scenes where woman never smiled 
or wept ; 

There to abide with my Creator, God, 

And sleep as I in childhood sweetly 
slept, 

Full of high thoughts, unborn. So let me 
lie, 

The grass below ; above, the vaulted sky. 

John Clare. 

-*o* - 

The Death of the Virtuous. 

Sweet is the scene when virtue dies! 

When sinks a righteous soul to rest, 
How mildly beam the closing eyes, 

How gently heaves tk’ expiring breast! 

So fades a summer cloud away, 

So sinks the gale when storms are o’er, 
So gently shuts the eye of day, 

So dies a wave along the shore. 

Triumphant smiles the victor brow, 

Fanned by some angel’s purple wing:— 
Where is, O grave! thy victory now ? 

And where, insidious death ! thy sting? 

Farewell, conflicting joys and fears, 

Where light and shade alternate dwell! 
How bright th’ unchanging morn ap¬ 
pears!— 

Farewell, inconstant world, farewell! 

Its duty done,—as sinks the day, 

Light from its load the spirit flies; 
"While heaven and earth combine to say 
“Sweet is the scene when virtue dies!” 

Anna Jvetitia Barbauld. 


The Common Lot. 

Once, in the flight of ages past, 

There liv’d a man; and who was he? 
Mortal! howe’er thy lot be cast, 

That man resembled thee. 

Unknown the region of his birth, 

The land in which he died unknown; 
His name has perish’d from the earth, 
This truth survives alone: 














MORAL AND DIDACTIC POETRY. 


639 


That joy, and grief, and hope, and fear, 
Alternate triumph’d in his breast; 

His bliss and woe,—a smile, a tear ! 
Oblivion hides the rest. 

He suffer’d,—but his pangs are o’er ; 

Enjoy’d,—but his delights are fled ; 

Had friends,—his friends are now no 
more; 

And foes,—his foes are dead. 

He saw whatever thou hast seen ; 

Encounter’d all that troubles thee : 

He was—whatever thou hast been ; 

He is what thou shalt be. 

The rolling seasons, day and night, 

Sun, moon, and stars, the earth and 
main, 

Erewhile his portion, life, and light, 

To him exist in vain. 

The clouds and sunbeams, o’er his eye 
That once their shades and glory threw, 
Have left in yonder silent sky 
No vestige where they flew. 

The annals of the human race, 

Their ruins, since the world began, 

Of him afford no other trace 
Than this,—there lived a man ! 

James Montgomery. 

The Three Warnings. 

The tree of deepest root is found 
Least willing still to quit the ground: 
’Twas therefore said by ancient sages, 

That love of life increased with years 
So much, that in our later stages, 

When pains grow sharp, and sickness rages, 
The greatest love of life appears. 

This great affection to believe, 

Which all confess, but few perceive, 

If old assertions can’t prevail,—■ 

Be pleased to hear a modern tale. 

When sports went round, and all were 

gay, 

On neighbor Dodson’s wedding-day, 

Death call’d aside the jocund groom 
With him into another room, 

And looking grave—“ You must,” says he, 
“ Quit your sweet bride, and come with 
me.” 


| “With you! and quit my Susan’s side! 
With you!” the hapless husband cried; 
“Young as I am, ’tis monstrous hard! 
Besides, in truth, I’m not prepared : 

My thoughts on other matters go : 

This is my wedding-day, you know.” 

What more he urged, I have not heard ; 

His reasons could not well be stronger; 
So Death the poor delinquent spared, 
And left to live a little longer. 

Yet calling up a serious look— 

His hour-glass trembled while he spoke— 
“Neighbor,” he said, “farewell! No more 
Shall Death disturb your mirthful hour; 
And farther, to avoid all blame 
Of cruelty upon my name, 

To give you time for preparation, 

And fit you for your future station, 

Three several warnings you shall have, 
Before you’re summon’d to the grave. 
Willing for once I’ll quit my prey, 

And grant a kind reprieve, 

In hopes you’ll have no more to say, 

But, when I call again this way, 

Well pleased the world will leave.” 

To these conditions both consented, 

And parted perfectly contented. 

What next the hero of our tale befell, 
How long he lived, how wise, how well, 
How roundly he pursued his course, 

And smoked his pipe, and stroked his 
horse, 

The willing Muse shall tell. 

He chaffer’d then, he bought, he sold, 

Nor once perceived his growing old, 

Nor thought of Death as near; 

His friends not false, his wife no shrew, 
Many his gains, his children few, 

He pass’d his hours in peace. 

But while he view’d his wealth increase, 
While thus along Life’s dusty road 
The beaten track content he trod, 

Old Time, whose haste no mortal spares, 
Uncall’d, unheeded, unawares, 

Brought on his eightieth year. 

And now, one night, in musing mood 
As all alone he sate, 

Th’ unwelcome messenger of Fate 
Once more before him stood. 

Half kill’d with anger and surprise, 

“ So soon return’d !” old Dodson cries. 

“So soon, d’ye call it?” Death replies i 









o40 


FIRESIDE ENCYCLOPEDIA OF POETRY. 


* l Surely, my friend, you’re but in jest! 

Since I was here before 
'Tis six-and-thirty years at least, 

And you are now fourscore.” 

“So much the worse,” the clown re¬ 
join’d; 

“To spare the aged would be kind: 
However, see your search be legal; 

And your authority—is’t regal? 

Else you are come on a fool’s errand, 

With but a secretary’s warrant. 

Besides, you promised me Three Warn¬ 
ings, 

Which I have look’d for nights and morn¬ 
ings; 

But for that loss of time and ease, 

I can recover damages.” 

“ I know,” cries Death, “ that at the 
best 

I seldom am a welcome guest; 

But don’t be captious, friend, at least: 

I little thought you’d still be able 
To stump about your farm and stable; 
Your years have run to a great length; 

I wish you joy, though, of your strength!” 

“ Hold,” says the farmer, “ not so fast! 

I have been lame these four years past.” 
“And no great wonder,” Death re¬ 
plies : 

“ However, you still keep your eyes; 

And sure, to see one’s loves and friends, 
For legs and arms would make amends.” 

“ Perhaps,” says Dodson, “ so it might, 
But latterly I’ve lost my sight.” 

“ This is a shocking tale, ’tis true, 

But still there’s comfort left for you: 

Each strives your sadness to amuse; 

I warrant you hear all the news.” 

“There’s none,” cries he; “and if there 
were, 

I’m grown so deaf I could not hear.” 

“ Nay, then,” the spectre stern rejoin’d, 

“ These are unwarrantable yearnings; 

If you are lame, and deaf, and blind, 
You’ve had your three sufficient warn¬ 
ings; 

So, come along, no more we’ll part;” 

He said, and touch’d him with his dart. 
And now old Dodson, turning pale, 

Yields to his fate—so ends my tale. 

Hester Thrale Piozzi. 


No w and After wards. 

“ Two hands upon the breast, and labor is past.” 

Kussian Proverb. 

“ Two hands upon the breast, 

And labor’s done; 

Two pale feet cross’d in rest,— 

The race is won ; 

Two eyes with coin-weights shut, 

And all tears cease; 

Two lips where grief is mute, 

Anger at peace 

So pray we oftentimes, mourning our lot; 

God in His kindness answereth not. 

“ Two hands to work addrest 
Aye for His praise ; 

Two feet that never rest 
Walking His ways; 

Two eyes that look above 
Through all their tears; 

Two lips still breathing love, 

Not wrath, nor fears 

So pray we afterwards, low on our knees," 

Pardon those erring prayers ! Father, hear 
these! 

Dinah Maria Mulock Craik. 


Tommy’s Dead. 

You may give over plough, boys, 

You may take the gear to the stead, 
All the sweat o’ your brow, boys, 

Will never get beer and bread. 

The seed’s waste, I know, boys, 

There’s not a blade will grow, boys. 
’Tis cropp’d out, I trow, boys, 

And Tommy’s dead. 

Send the colt to fair, boys, 

He’s going blind, as I said, 

My old eyes can’t bear, boys, 

To see him in the shed ; 

The cow’s dry and spare, boys, 

She’s neither here nor there, boys, 

I doubt she’s badly bred; 

Stop the mill to-morn, boys, 

There’ll be no more corn, boys, 

Neither white nor red; 

There’s no sign of grass, boys, 

You may sell the goat and the ass, boys, 
The land’s not what it was, boys, 

And the beasts must be fed; 





MORAL AXI) DIDACTIC POETRY. 


641 


You may turn Peg away, boys, 

You may pay off old Ned, 

We’ve had a dull day, boys, 

And Tommy’s dead. 

Move my chair on the floor, boys, 

Let me turn my head; 

She’s standing there in the door, boys, j 
Your sister Winifred! 

Take her away from me, boys, 

Your sister Winifred! 

Move me round in my place, boys, 

Let me turn my head, 

Take her away from me, boys, 

As she lay on her death-bed, 

The bones of her thin face, boys, 

As she lay on her death-bed ! 

I don’t know how it be, boys, 

When all’s done and said, 

But I see her looking at me, boys, 
Wherever I turn my head; 

Out of the big oak tree, boys, 

Out of the garden bed, 

And the lily as pale as she, boys, 

And the rose that used to be red. 

There’s something not right, boys, 

But I think it’s not in my head, 

I’ve kept my precious sight, boys,— 

The Lord be hallowfed ! 

Outside and in 

The ground is cold to my tread, 

The hills are wizen and thin, 

The sky is shrivell’d and shred, 

The hedges down by the loan 
I can count them bone by bone, 

The leaves are open and spread, 

But I see the teeth of the land, 

And hands like a dead man’s hand, 

And the eyes of a dead man’s head. 
There’s nothing but cinders and sand, 

The rat and the mouse have fed, 

And the summer’s empty and cold; 

Over valley and Avoid 
Wherever I turn my head 
There’s a mildew and a mould, 

The sun’s going out overhead, 

And I’m very old, 

And Tommy’s dead. 

What am I staying for, boys'? 

You’re all born and bred, 

41 


’Tis fifty years and more, boys, 

Since Avife and I were AA’ed, 

And she’s gone before, boys, 

And Tommy’s dead. 

She was always sAveet, boys, 

Upon his curly head, 

She kncAV she’d never see’t, boys, 

And she stole off to bed; 

I’ve been sitting up alone, boys, 

For he’d come home, he said, 

But it’s time I Avas gone, boys, 

For Tommy’s dead. 

Put the shutters up, boys, 

Bring out the beer and bread, 

Make haste and sup, boys, 

For my eyes are heavy as lead; 

There’s something Avrong i’ the cup, boys, 
There’s something ill Avi’ the bread, 

I don’t care to sup, boys, 

And Tommy’s dead. 

I’m not right, I doubt, boys, 

I’ve such a sleepy head, 

I shall nevermore be stout, boys, 

You may carry me to bed. 

What are you about, boys ? 

The prayers are all said, 

The fire’s raked out, boys, 

And Tommy’s dead. 

The stairs are too steep, boys, 

You may carry me to the head, 

The night’s dark and deep, boys, 

Your mother’s long in bed, 

’Tis time to go to sleep, boys, 

And Tommy’s dead. 

I’m not used to kiss, boys, 

You may shake my hand instead. 

All things go amiss, boys, 

You may lay me Avhere she is, boys, 

And I’ll rest my old head : 

’T is a poor world, this, boys, 

And Tommy’s dead. 

Sidney Dobell. 

The Barons Last Banquet. 

O’er a low couch the setting sun 
Had thrown its latest ray, 

Where in his last strong agony 
A dying Avarrior lay, 







G42 


FIRESIDE ENCYCLOPAEDIA OF POETRY. 


The stern, old Baron Rudiger, 

Whose frame had ne’er been bent 
By wasting pain, till time and toil 
Its iron strength had spent. 

“ They come around me here, and say 
My days of life are o’er, 

That I shall mount my noble steed 
And lead my band no more ; 

They come, and to my beard they dare 
To tell me now, that I, 

Their own liege lord and master born,— 
That I—ha! ha !—must die. 

“ And what is Death ? I’ve dared him 
oft 

Before the Paynim spear,— 

Think ye he’s enter’d at my gate, 

Has come to seek me here ? 

I’ve met him, faced him, scorn’d him, 
When the fight was raging hot,— 

I’ll try his might—I’ll brave his power; 
Defy, and fear him not. 

“ Ho ! sound the tocsin from my tower,— 
And fire the culverin,— 

Bid each retainer arm with speed,— 

Call every vassal in ; 

Up with my banner on the wall,— 

The banquet-board prepare,— 

Throw wide the portal of my hall, 

And bring my armor there!” 

A hundred hands were busy then,— 

The banquet forth was spread,— 

And rung the heavy oaken floor 
With many a martial tread, 

While from the rich, dark tracery 
Along the vaulted wall, 

Lights gleam’d on harness, plume, and 
spear, 

O’er the proud old Gothic hall. 

Fast hurrying through the outer gate, 

The mail’d retainers pour’d, 

On through the portal’s frowning arch, 
And throng’d around the board. 

While at its head, within his dark, 

Carved oaken chair of state, 

Armed cap-a-pie, stern Rudiger, 

With girded falchion, sate. 


“ Fill every beaker up, my men, 

Pour forth the cheering wine; 

There’s life and strength in every drop,— 
Thanksgiving to the vine! 

Are ye all there, my vassals true?— 

Mine eyes are waxing dim ;— 

Fill round, my tried and fearless ones, 
Each goblet to the brim. 

“ Ye’re there, but yet I see ye not. 

Draw forth each trusty sword,— 

And let me hear your faithful stee* 

Clash once around my board : 

I hear it faintly :—Louder yet!— 

What clogs my heavy breath ? 

Up all,—and shout for Rudiger, 

‘ Defiance unto Death !’ ” 

Bowl rang to bowl,—steel clang’d to steel 
—And rose a deafening cry 
That made the torches flare around, 

And shook the flags on high:— 

“ Ho! cravens, do ye fear him?— 

Slaves, traitors! have ye flown ? 

Ho ! cowards, have ye left me 
To meet him here alone? 

“ But /defy him:—let him come!” 

Down rang the massy cup, 

While from its sheath the ready blade 
Came flashing half-way up; 

And, with the black and heavy plumes 
Scarce trembling on his head, 

There, in his dark, carved, oaken chair. 
Old Rudiger sat, dead. 

Albert G. Greene 

The Sleep. 

“ He giveth His beloved sleep.”—Psalm exxvii. 2, 

Of all the thoughts of God that are 
Borne inward unto souls afar 
Along the Psalmist’s music deep, 

Now tell me if that any is 

For gift or grace surpassing this,— 

“ He giveth His beloved sleep ” ? 

What would we give to our beloved ? 
The hero’s heart to be unmoved, 

The poet’s star-tuned harp to sweep, 
The patriot’s voice to teach and rouse, 






MORAL ANl) DIDACTIC POETRY. 


643 


The monarch’s crown to light the brows? 

“ He giveth His beloved sleep.” 

What do we give to our beloved ? 

A little faith all undisproved, 

A little dust to overweep, 

And bitter memories to make 
The wdiole earth blasted for our sake. 

“ He giveth His beloved sleep.” 

“ Sleep soft, beloved !” we sometimes say, 
But have no tune to charm away 
Sad dreams that through the eyelids 
creep. 

But never doleful dream again 
Shall break the happy slumber when 
“ He giveth His beloved sleep.” 

O earth, so full of dreary noises ! 

O men, with wailing in your voices ! 

O delvfed gold, the wailers heap ! 

O strife, O curse, that o’er it fall! 

God strikes a silence through you all, 

And “ giveth His beloved sleep.” 

His dews drop mutely on the hill, 

His cloud above it saileth still, 

Though on its slope men sow and reap. 
More softly than the dew is shed, 

Or cloud is floated overhead, 

“ He giveth His beloved sleep.” 

Ay, men may wonder while they scan 
A living, thinking, feeling man, 

Confirm’d in such a rest to keep ; 

But angels say—and through the word 
I think their happy smile is heard — 

“ He giveth His beloved sleep.” 

For me, my heart, that erst did go 
Most like a tired child at a show, 

That sees through tears the mummers 
leap, 

Would now its weary vision close, 

Would childlike on His love repose 
Who “ giveth His beloved sleep !” 

And, friends, dear friends, when it shall be 
That this low breath is gone from me, 

And round my bier ye come to weep, 

Let one, most loving of you all, 

Say, “ Not a tear must o’er her fall,— 

He giveth His beloved sleep.” 

Elizabeth Barrett Browning. 


Death’s Final Conquest. 

The glories of our blood and state 
Are shadows, not substantial things; 
There is no armor against fate; 

Death lays his icy hand on kings; 
Sceptre and crown 
Must tumble down, 

And in the dust be equal made 

With the poor crooked scythe and spade. 

Some men with swords may reap the field, 
And plant fresh laurels where they kill, 
But their strong nerves at last must yield; 
They tame but one another still; 

Early or late 
They stoop to fate, 

And must give up their murmuring 
breath 

When they, pale captives, creep to death. 

The garlands wither on your brow ; 

Then boast no more your mighty deeds; 
Upon Death’s purple altar now 
See where the victor-victim bleeds; 
Your heads must come 
To the cold tomb ; 

Only the actions of the just 

Smell sweet, and blossom in their dust. 

James Shirley. 

The Last Conqueror. 

Victorious men of earth, no more 
Proclaim how wide your empires are ; 
Though you bind in every shore 
And your triumphs reach as far 
As night or day, 

Yet you, proud monarchs, must obey, 
And mingle with forgotten ashes, when 
Death calls ye to the crow T d of common 
men. 

Devouring Famine, Plague, and War, 
Each able to undo mankind, 

Death’s servile emissaries are; 

Nor to these alone confined, 

He hath at will 

More quaint and subtle ways to kill; 

A smile or kiss, as he will use the art, 
Shall have the cunning skill to break a 
heart. 


James Shirley. 






G44 


FIRESIDE ENCYCLOPEDIA OF POETRY. 


Than a topsis. 

To him who in the love of Nature holds 
Communion with her visible forms, she 
speaks 

A various language; for his gayer hours 
She has a voice of gladness, and a smile 
And eloquence of beauty, and she glides 
Into his darker musings, with a mild 
And healing sympathy, that steals away 
Their sharpness ere he is aware. When 
thoughts 

Of the last bitter hour come like a blight 
Over thy spirit, and sad images 
Of the stern agony, and shroud, and pall, 
And breathless darkness, and the narrow 
house, 

Make thee to shudder, and grow sick at 
heart;— 

Go forth, under the open sky, and list 
To Nature’s teachings, while from all 
around— 

Earth and her waters, and the depths of 
air,— 

Comes a still voice—Yet a few days, and 
thee 

The all-beholding sun shall see no more 
In all his course; nor yet in the cold 
ground, 

Where thy pale form was laid, with many 
tears, 

Nor in the embrace of ocean, shall exist 
Thy image. Earth, that nourish’d thee, 
shall claim 

Thy growth, to be resolved to earth again, 
And, lost each human trace, surrendering up 
Thine individual being, shalt thou go 
To mix for ever with the elements, 

To be a brother to the insensible rock, 

And to the sluggish clod, which the rude 
swain 

Turns with his share, and treads upon. 
The oak 

Shall send his roots abroad, and pierce 
thy mould. 

Yet not to thine eternal resting-place 
Shalt thou retire alone,—nor couldst thou 
wish 

Couch more magnificent. Thou shalt lie 
down 

With patriarchs of the infant world—w T ith 
kings, 


The powerful of the earth—the wise, the 
good, 

Fair forms-and hoary seers of ages past, 
All in one mighty sepulchre. The hills 
Rock-ribb’d and ancient as the sun; the 
vales 

Stretching in pensive quietness between ; 
The venerable woods; rivers that move 
In majesty, and the complaining brooks 
That make the meadows green; and, pour’d 
round all, 

Old Ocean’s gray and melancholy waste,— 
Are but the solemn decorations all 
Of the great tomb of man. The golden sun, 
The planets, all the infinite host of 
heaven, 

Are shining on the sad abodes of death, 
Through the still lapse of ages. All that 
tread 

The globe are but a handful to the tribes 
That slumber in its bosom.—Take the 
wings 

Of morning, pierce the Barcan wilderness, 
Or lose thyself in the continuous woods 
Where rolls the Oregon, and hears no 
sound 

Save his own dashings—yet the dead are 
there: 

And millions in those solitudes, since first 
The flight of years began, have laid them 
down 

In their last sleep—the dead reign there 
alone. 

So shalt thou rest, and what if thou with¬ 
draw 

In silence from the living, and no friend 
Take note of thy departure? All that 
breathe 

Will share thy destiny. The gay will 
laugh 

When thou art gone, the solemn brood of 
care 

Plod on, and each one as before will chase 
His favorite phantom ; yet all these shall 
leave 

Their mirth and their employments, and 
shall come, 

And make their bed with thee. As the 
long train 

Of ages glide away, the sons of men, 

The youth in life’s green spring, and he 
who goes 






OLD MASTERS OF ENGLISH VERSE 

Men whose lines have stood the test of time. 



















ENGLISH POETS OF TWO CENTURIES 

Each celebrated for one or more masterpieces. 




MORAL AND DIDACTIC POETRY. 


64o 


In the full strength of years, matron and 
maid, 

The speechless babe, and the gray-headed 
man,— 

Shall one by one be gather’d to thy side, 

By those who in their turn shall follow 
them. 

So live, that when thy summons comes 
to join 

The innumerable caravan, which moves 

To that mysterious realm, where each shall 
take 

His chamber in the silent halls of death, 

Thou go not, like the quarry-slave at 
night, 

Scourged to his dungeon, but, sustain’d and 
soothed 

By an unfaltering trust, approach thy 
grave 

Like one who wraps the drapery of his 
couch 

About him, and lies down to pleasant j 
dreams. 

William Cullen Bryant. 


When Coldness Wraps this 
Suffering Clay. 

When coldness wraps this suffering clay, 
Ah, whither strays the immortal mind? 

It cannot die, it cannot stay, 

But leaves its darken’d dust behind. 

Then, unembodied, doth it trace 

By steps each planet’s heavenly way ? 

Or fill at once the realms of space, 

A thing of eyes, that all survey? 

Eternal, boundless, undecay’d, 

A thought unseen, but seeing all, 

All, all in earth or skies display’d, 

Shall it survey, shall it recall : 

Each fainter trace that memory holds 
So darkly of departed years, 

In one broad glance the soul beholds, 

And all that was at once appears. 

Before creation peopled earth, 

Its eye shall roll through chaos back ; 

And where the farthest heaven had birth, 
The spirit trace its rising track. 

And where the future mars or makes, 

Its glance dilate o’er all to be, 


While sun is quench’d or system breaks, 
Fix’d in its own eternity. 

Above or love, hope, hate, or fear, 

It lives all passionless and pure : 

An age shall fleet like earthly year; 

Its years as moments shall endure. 
Away, away, without a wing, 

O’er all, through all, its thoughts shall 

fly — 

A nameless and eternal thing, 

Forgetting what it was to die. 

Lord Byron. 

A Death-bed. 

Her suffering ended with the day ; 

Yet lived she at its close, 

And breathed the long, long night away, 
In statue-like repose. 

But when the sun, in all his state, 

Illumed the eastern skies, 

She pass’d through glory’s morning-gate. 
And walk’d in Paradise! 

James Aldrich. 

The Death-bed. 

We watch’d her breathing through the 
night, 

Her breathing soft and low, 

As in her breast the wave of life 
Kept heaving to and fro. 

So silently we seem’d to speak, 

So slowly moved about, 

As we had lent her half our powers 
To eke her living out. 

Our very hopes belied our fears, 

Our fears our hopes belied— 

We thought her dying when she slept, 

And sleeping when she died. 

For when the morn came dim and sad 
And chill with early showers, 

Her quiet eyelids closed—she had 
Another morn than ours. 

Thomas Hood 

Coronach. 

He is gone on the mountain, 

He is lost to the forest, 

Like a summer-dried fountain, 

When our need was the sorest. 






646 


FIRESIDE ENCYCLOPEDIA OF POETRY. 


The font, reappearing, 

From the raindrops shall borrow, 
But to us comes no cheering, 

To Duncan no morrow ! 

The hand of the reaper 

Takes the ears that are hoary, 

But the voice of the weeper 
Wails manhood in glory. 

The autumn winds, rushing, 

Waft the leaves that are serest; 
But our flower was in flushing 
When blighting was nearest. 

Fleet foot on the correi, 

Sage counsel in cumber, 

Red hand in the foray, 

How sound is thy slumber! 

Like the dew on the mountain, 

Like the foam on the river, 

Like the bubble on the fountain, 
Thou art gone, and for ever! 

Sir Walter Scott. 


The Knight’S Tomb. 

Where is the grave of Sir Arthur O’Kel- 
lyn ? 

Where may the grave of that good man 
be?— 

By the side of a spring, on the breast of 
Helvellyn, 

Under the twigs of a young birch tree! 

The oak that in summer was sweet to hear, 

And rustled its leaves in the fall of the 
year, 

And whistled and roar’d in the winter 
alone, 

Is gone, — and the birch in its stead is 
grown.— 

The knight’s bones are dust, 

And his good sword rust;— 

His soul is with the saints, I trust. 

Samuel Taylor Coleridge. 


The Voiceless. 

We count the broken lyres that rest 
Where the sweet wailing singers slumber, 
But o’er their silent sister’s breast 
The wild-flowers who will stoop to num¬ 
ber ? 


A few can touch the magic string, 

And noisy Fame is proud to win 
them:— 

Alas for those that never sing, 

But die with all their music in them ! 

Nay, grieve not for the dead alone 
Whose song has told their hearts’ sad 
story,— 

Weep for the voiceless, who have known 
The cross without the crown of glory! 

Not where Leucadian breezes sweep 
O’er Sappho’s memory-haunted billow, 

But where the glistening night-dews weep 
On nameless sorrow’s churchyard pil¬ 
low. 

O hearts that break and give no sign 
Save whitening lip and fading tresses, 

Till Death pours out his cordial wine 
Slow-dropp’d from Misery’s crushing 
presses,— 

If singing breath or echoing chord 
To every hidden pang were given, 

What endless melodies were pour’d, 

As sad as earth, as sweet as heaven ! 

Oliver Wendell Holmes. 


Man’s Mortality. 

Like as the damask rose you see, 

Or like the blossom on the tree, 

Or like the dainty flower in May, 

Or like the morning of the day, 

Or like the sun, or like the shade, 

Or like the gourd which Jonas had,— 
E’en such is man ; — whose thread is 
spun, 

Drawn out, and cut, and so is done.— 
The rose withers, the blossom blasteth, 
The flower fades, the morning hasteth, 

The sun sets, the shadow flies, 

The gourd consumes,—and man he dies! 

Like to the grass that’s newly sprung, 

Or like a tale that’s new begun, 

Or like the bird that’s here to-day, 

Or like the pearlfed dew of May, 

Or like an hour, or like a span, 

Or like the singing of a swan,— 

E’en such is man;—who lives by breath, 
Is here, now there, in life and death.-'- 








MORAL AM) DIDACTIC POETRY. 


647 


The grass withers, the tale is ended, 

The bird is flown, the dew’s ascended. 

The hour is short, the span is long, 

The swan’s near death,—man’s life is done! 

Simon Wastell. 

Oii why should the Spirit of 
Mortal be Proud ? 

Oh, why should the spirit of mortal be 
proud ? 

Like a fast-flitting meteor, a fast-flying 
cloud, 

A flash of the lightning, a break of the 
wave, 

He passeth from life to his rest in the 
grave. 

The leaves of the oak and the willow shall 
fade, 

Be scatter’d around and together be laid; 

And the young and the old, and the low 
and the high, 

Shall moulder to dust and together shall 
lie. 

The child that a mother attended and 
loved, 

The mother that infant’s affection who 
proved, 

The husband that mother and infant who 
bless’d,— 

Each, all, are away to their dwellings of 
rest. 

The maid on whose cheek, on whose brow, 
in w'hose eye, 

Shone beauty and pleasure,—her triumphs 
are by; 

And the memory of those who have loved 
her and praised, 

Are alike from the minds of the living 
erased. 

The hand of the king that the sceptre hath 
borne, 

The brow of the priest that the mitre hath 
worn, 

The eye of the sage, and the heart of the 
brave, 

Are hidden and lost in the depths of the 
grave. 


The peasant whose lot was to sow and to 
reap, 

I The herdsman who climb’d with his goats 
to the steep, 

The beggar who wander’d in search of his 
bread, 

| 7 

j Have faded away like the grass that we 
tread. 

The saint who enjoy’d the communion of 
heaven, 

The sinner who dared to remain unfor¬ 
given, 

The wise and the foolish, the guilty and 
just, 

Have quietly mingled their bones in the 
dust. 

So the multitude goes, like the flower and 
the weed, 

That wither away to let others succeed; 

So the multitude comes, even those we be¬ 
hold, 

To repeat every tale that hath often been 
told. 

For we are the same things our fathers 
have been; 

We see the same sights that our fathers 
have seen,— 

We drink the same stream, and we feel the 
same sun, 

And run the same course that our fathers 
have run. 

The thoughts we are thinking our fathers 
would think; 

From the death we are shrinking from, 
they too would shrink ; 

To the life we are clinging to, they too 
would cling; 

But it speeds from the earth like a bird on 
the wing. I 

They loved, but their story we cannot un-. 
fold; 

They scorn’d, but the heart of the haughty 
is cold; 

They grieved, but no wail from their slum¬ 
bers will come; 

They joy’d, but the voice of their gladness 
is dumb. 








648 


FIRESIDE ENCYCLOPAEDIA OF POETRY. 


They died,—ay! they died; and we things 
that are now, 

Who walk on the turf that lies over their 
brow, 

Who make in their dwellings a transient 
abode, 

Meet the changes they met on their pil¬ 
grimage road. 

Yea, hope and despondence, and pleasure 
and pain, 

Are mingled together in sunshine and 
rain; 

And the smile and the tear, the song and 
the dirge, 

Still follow each other, like surge upon 
surge. 

’Tis the twink of an eye, ’tis the draught 
of a breath, 

From the blossom of health to the paleness 
of death, 

From the gilded saloon to the bier and the 
shroud,— 

Oh why should the spirit of mortal be 
proud ? 

William Knox. 


Passing Away. 

Was it the chime of a tiny bell 
That came so sweet to my dreaming ear, 

Like the silvery tones of a fairy’s shell 
That he winds, on the beach, so mellow 
and clear, 

When the winds and the waves lie to¬ 
gether asleep, 

And the Moon and the Fairy are watching 
the deep, 

She dispensing her silvery light, 

And he his notes as silvery quite, 

While the boatman listens and ships his 
oar, 

To catch the music that comes from the 
shore? 

Hark! the notes on my ear that play 

Are set to words; as they float, they say, 

“ Passing away ! passing away!” 

But no; it was not a fairy’s shell, 

Blown on the beach, so mellow and 
clear; 

Nor was it the tongue of a silver bell, 
Striking the hour, that fill’d my ear 


As I lay in my dream; yet was it a chime 

That told of the flow of the stream of 
time. 

For a beautiful clock from the ceiling 
hung, 

And a plump little girl, for a pendulum, 
swung 

(As you’ve sometimes seen, in a little ring 

That hangs in his cage, a canary-bird 
swing); 

And she held to her bosom a budding 
bouquet, 

And, as she enjoy’d it, she seem’d to say, 

“ Passing away! passing away 1” 

Oh how bright were the wheels, that told 

Of the lapse of time, as they moved 
round slow; 

And the hands, as they swept o’er the dial 
of gold, 

Seem’d to point to the girl below. 

And lo ! she had changed: in a few short 
hours 

Her bouquet had become a garland of 
flowers, 

That she held in her outstretch’d hands, 
and flung 

This way and that, as she, dancing, swung 

In the fulness of grace and of womanly 
pride, 

That told me she soon w r as to be a bride; 

Yet then, when expecting her happiest 

day, 

In the same sw r eet voice I heard her say, 

“ Passing aw'ay ! passing away !” 

While I gazed at that fair one’s cheek, a 
shade 

Of thought or care stole softly over, 

Like that by a cloud in a summer’s day 
made, 

Looking down on a field of blossoming 
clover. 

The rose yet lay on her cheek, but its 
flush 

Had something lost of its brilliant blush ; 

And the light in her eye, and the light on 
the wheels, 

That march’d so calmly round above her, 

Was a little diinm’d,—as when Evening 
steals 

Lpon Noon’s hot face. Yet one couldn’t 
but love her, 






MORAL AND DIDACTIC POETRY. 


640 


For she look’d like a mother whose first 
babe lay 

Rock’d on her breast, as she swung all day; 
And she seem’d, in the same silver tone, 
to say, 

“ Passing away! passing away!” 

While yet I look’d, what a change there 
came! 

Her eye was quench’d, and her cheek 
was wan; 

Stooping and staff’d was her wither’d 
frame, 

Yet just as busily swung she on ; 

The garland beneath her had fallen to 
dust; 

The wheels above her were eaten with 
rust; 

The hands, that over the dial swept, 

Grew crooked and tarnish’d, but on they 
' kept, 

And still there came that silver tone 
From the shrivell’d lips of the toothless 
crone 

(Let me never forget till my dying day 
The tone or the burden of her lay), 

“ Passing away! passing away !” 

John Pierpont. 

Her last Verses. 

Earth, with its dark and dreadful ills, 
Recedes and fades away ; 

Lift up your heads, ye heavenly hills, 
Ye gates of death, give way ! 

My soul is full of whisper’d song, 

My blindness is my sight; 

The shadows that I fear’d so long 
Are all alive with light. 

The while my pulses faintly beat, 

My faith doth so abound, 

I feel grow firm beneath my feet 
The green immortal ground. 

That faith to me a courage gives, 

Low as the grave to go; 

I know that my Redeemer lives: 

That I shall live I know. 

The palace-walls I almost see, 

Where dwells my Lord and King; 

0 grave, where is thy victory? 

0 death, where is thy sting? 

Alice Cary. 


Over the River. 

Over the river they beckon to me,— 
Loved ones who’ve cross’d to the farther 
side; 

The gleam of their snowy robes I see, 

But their voices are drown’d in the 
rushing tide. 

There’s one with ringlets of sunny gold, 
And eyes, the reflection of heaven’s own 
blue; 

He cross’d in the twilight, gray and cold, 
And the pale mist hid him from mortal 
view. 

We saw not the angels who met him there; 
The gates of the city we could not see; 

Over the river, over the river, 

My brother stands waiting to welcome me! 

Over the river, the boatman pale 
Carried another,—the household pet: 

Her brown curls waved in the gentle 
gale— 

Darling Minnie! I see her yet. 

She cross’d on her bosom her dimpled 
hands, 

And fearlessly enter’d the phantom 
bark ; 

We watch’d it glide from the silver sands, 
And all our sunshine grew strangely 
dark. 

We know she is safe on the farther side, 
Where all the ransom’d and angels be; 

Over the river, the mystic river, 

My childhood’s idol is waiting for me. 

For none return from those quiet shores, 
Who cross with the boatman cold and 
pale; 

We hear the dip of the golden oars, 

And catch a gleam of the snowy sail,— 

And lo ! they have pass’d from our yearn¬ 
ing heart; 

They cross the stream, and are gone for 
aye; 

We may not sunder the veil apart, 

That hides from our vision the gates of 
day. 

We only know that their barks no more 
May sail with us o’er life’s stormy sea ; 

Yet somewhere, I know, on the unseen 
shore, 

They watch, and beckon, and wait for me. 






650 


FIRESIDE ENCYCLOPAEDIA OF POETRY. 


And I sit and think, when the sunset’s gold 
Is flushing river, and hill, and shore, 

I shall one day stand by the water cold, 
And list for the sound of the boatman’s 
oar ; 

I shall watch for a gleam of the flapping j 
sail; 

I shall hear the boat as it gains the 
strand; 

I shall pass from sight, with the boatman 
pale, 

To the better shore of the spirit land ; 

I shall know the loved who have gone be¬ 
fore,— 

And joyfully sweet will the meeting be, 

When over the river, the peaceful river, 
The Angel of Death shall carry me. 

Nancy A. W. Wakefield. 


The Burial of the Dane. 

Blue gulf all around us, 

Blue sky overhead— 

Muster all on the quarter, 

We must bury the dead! 

It is but a Danish sailor, 

Rugged of front and form ; 

A common son of the forecastle, 

Grizzled with sun and storm. 

His name and the strand he hailed from 
We know, and there’s nothing more! 

But perhaps his mother is waiting 
In the lonely island of Fohr. 

Still, as he lay there dying, 

Reason drifting awreck, 

“ ’Tis my watch,” he would mutter, 

“ I must go upon deck !” 

Aye, on deck, by the foremast! 

But watch and lookout are done; 

The Union Jack laid o’er him, 

How quiet he lies in the sun J 

Slow the ponderous engine, 

Stay the hurrying shaft; 

Let the roll of the ocean 
Cradle our giant craft; 

Gather around the grating, 

Carry your messmate aft! 


Stand in order, and listen 
To the holiest page of prayer ! 

Let every foot be quiet, 

Every head be bare— 

The soft trade-wind is lifting 
A hundred locks of hair. 

Our captain reads the service 
(A little spray on his cheeks), 

The grand old words of burial, 

And the trust a true heart seeks: 
“We therefore commit his body 
To the deep ”—and, as he speaks, 

Launched from the weather railing, 
Swift as the eye can mark, 

The ghastly, shotted hammock 
Plunges, away from the shark, 

Down a thousand fathoms, 

Down into the dark ! 

A thousand summers and winters 
The stormy Gulf shall roll 
High o’er his canvas coffin; 

But, silence to doubt and dole — 
There’s a quiet harbor somewhere 
For the poor aweary soul. 

Free the fettered engine, 

Speed the tireless shaft, 

Loose to’gallant and topsail, 

The breeze is fair abaft! 

Blue sea all around us, 

Blue sky bright o’erhead— 

Every man to his duty, 

We have buried our dead ! 

Henry Howard Brownell. 


Eleg Y. 

Written in a Country Churchyard. 

The curfew tolls the knell of parting 
day, 

The lowing herd winds slowly o’er the 
lea, 

The ploughman homeward plods his weary 
way, 

And leaves the world to darkness and to 
me. 







MORAL AND DIDACTIC POETRY. 


<551 


Now fades the glimmering landscape on 
the sight, 

And all the air a solemn stillness holds, 

Save where the beetle wheels his droning 
flight, 

And drowsy tinklings lull the distant 
folds: 

Save that from yonder ivy-mantled tower 
The moping owl does to the moon com¬ 
plain 

Of such as, wandering near her secret 
bower, 

Molest her ancient solitary reign. 

Beneath those rugged elms, that yew tree’s 
shade, 

Where heaves the turf in many a moul¬ 
dering heap, 

Each in his narrow cell for ever laid, 

The rude forefathers of the hamlet sleep. 

The breezy call of incense-breathing morn, 
The swallow twittering from the straw- 
built shed, 

The cock’s shrill clarion, or the echoing 
horn, 

No more shall rouse them from their 
lowly bed. 

For them no more the blazing hearth shall 
burn 

Or busy housewife ply her evening care: 

No children run to lisp their sire’s return, 
Or climb his knees the envied kiss to 
share. 

x 

Oft did the harvest to their sickle yield, 
Their furrow oft the stubborn glebe has 
broke; 

How jocund did they drive their team 
afield! 

How bow’d the woods beneath their 
sturdy stroke! 

Let not Ambition mock their useful toil, 
Their homely joys, and destiny obscure; 

Nor Grandeur hear with a disdainful 
smile 

The short and simple annals of the 
poor. 

The boast of heraldry, the pomp of power, 
And all that beauty, all that wealth e’er 
gave, 


Await alike th’ inevitable hour:— 

The paths of glory lead but to the grave. 

Nor you, ye proud, impute to these the 
fault 

If Memory o’er their tomb no trophies 
raise, 

Where through the long-drawn aisle and 
fretted vault 

The pealing anthem swells the note of 
praise. 

Can storied urn or animated bust 
Back to its mansion call the fleeting 
breath ? 

Can Honor’s voice provoke the silent dust, 
Or Flattery soothe the dull cold ear of 
Death ? 

Perhaps in this neglected spot is laid 
Some heart once pregnant with celestial 
fire; 

Hands, that the rod of empire might have 
sway’d, 

Or waked to ecstasy the living lyre: 

But Knowledge to their eyes her ample 
page 

Rich with the spoils of time did ne’er 
unroll; 

Chill Penury repress’d their noble rage, 

And froze the genial current of the soul. 

Full many a gem of purest ray serene 
The dark unfathom’d caves of ocean 
bear : 

Full many a flower is born to blush un¬ 
seen, 

And waste its sweetness on the desert 
air. 

Some village Hampden, that with daunt¬ 
less breast 

The little tyrant of his fields withstood, / 

Some mute inglorious Milton here may 1 
rest, 

Some Cromwell, guiltless of his country’s 
blood. 

Th’ applause of list’ning senates to com' 
mand, 

The threats of pain and ruin to despise, 

To scatter plenty o’er a smiling land, 

And read their history in a nation’s 

eyes, 









G52 


FIRESIDE ENCYCLOPAEDIA OF POETRY. 


Their lot forbade : nor circumscribed alone 

Their growing virtues, but their crimes 
confined; 

Forbade to wade through slaughter to a 
throne, 

And shut the gates of mercy on man¬ 
kind ; 

The struggling pangs of conscious truth to 
hide, 

To quench the blushes of ingenuous 
shame, 

Or heap the shrine of Luxury and Pride 

With incense kindled at the Muse’s 
flame. 

Far from the madding crowd’s ignoble 
strife 

Their sober wishes never learn’d to stray; 

Along the cool sequester’d vale of life 

They kept the noiseless tenor of their 
way. 

Yet e’en these bones from insult to pro¬ 
tect 

Some frail memorial still erected nigh, 

With uncouth rhymes and shapeless sculp¬ 
ture deck’d, 

Implores the passing tribute of a sigh. 

Their name, their years, spelt by th’ unlet¬ 
ter’d Muse, 

The place of fame and elegy supply: 

And many a holy text around she strews 

That teach the rustic moralist to die. 

For who, to dumb forgetfulness a prey, 

This pleasing anxious being e’er re-- 
sign’d, 

Left the warm precincts of the cheerful 
day, 

Nor cast one longing lingering look be¬ 
hind? 

On some fond breast the parting soul relies, 

Some pious drops the closing eye re¬ 
quires ; 

E’en from the tomb the voice of Nature 
cries, 

E’en in our ashes live their wonted fires. 

For thee, who, mindful of th’ unhonor’d 
dead, 

Dost in these lines their artless tale re¬ 
late, 


If chance, by lonely Contemplation led, 
Some kindred spirit shall inquire thy 
fate,— 

Haply some hoary-headed swain may say, 
“ Oft have we seen him at the peep of 
dawn 

Brushing with hasty steps the dews away, 
To meet the sun upon the upland lawn; 

“ There at the foot of yonder nodding beech 
That wreathes its old fantastic roots so 
high, 

His listless length at noontide would he 
stretch, 

And pore upon the brook that babbles by. 

“ Hard by yon wood, now smiling as in 
scorn, 

Muttering his wayward fancies he would 
rove; 

Now drooping, woeful-wan, like one for¬ 
lorn, 

Or crazed with care, or cross’d in hope¬ 
less love. 

“ One morn I miss’d him on the ’custom’d 
hill, 

Along the heath, and near his favorite 
tree; 

Another came, nor yet beside the rill, 

Nor up the lawn, nor at the wood was 
he; 

“ The next with dirges due in sad array 
Slow through the church way path we 
saw him borne; 

Approach and read (for thou canst read) 
the lay 

Graved on the stone beneath yon aged 
thorn.” 

THE EPITAPH. 

Here rests his head upon the lap of Earth 
A youth, to fortune and to fame un¬ 
known ; 

Fair Science frown’d not on his humble 
birth, 

And Melancholy mark’d him for her 
own. 

Large was his bounty, and his soul sin¬ 
cere ; 

Heaven did a recompense as largely 
send: 









DEAN SWIFT AND STELLA 

The author of Gulliver’s Travels was privately married to Miss Hester Johnson in 1706, 

and his poems often refer with affection to his “ Stella.” 
















WILSON ALLEN WILKIE 

MACKENZIE CRABBE LOCKHART WORDSWORTH MOORE CONSTABLE 

JEFFREY 

SCOTT FERGUSON CAMPBELL 










MORAL AND DIDACTIC POETRY. 


He gave to Misery all he had,—a tear, 

He gain’d from Heaven—’twas all he 
wish’d—a friend. 

No farther seek his merits to disclose, 

Or draw his frailties from their dread 
abode 

(There they alike in trembling hope re¬ 
pose), 

The bosom of his Father and his God. 

Thomas Gray. 

Lines Written in Richmond 
Churchyard, Yorkshire. 

Methinks it is good to be here; 

If thou wilt, let us build,—but for whom? 

Nor Elias nor Moses appear, 

But the shadows of eve that encompass the 
gloom, 

The abode of the dead and the place of the 
tomb. 

Shall we build to Ambition? Oh, no! 
Affrighted, he shrinketh away; 

For, see! they would pin him below, 

In a small, narrow cave, and, begirt with 
cold clay, 

To the meanest of reptiles a peer and a 
prey. 

To Beauty? ah, no! She forgets 
The charms which she wielded before, 

Nor knows the foul worm that he frets 
The skin which but yesterday fools could 
adore, 

For the smoothness it held, or the tint 
which it wore. 

Shall we build to the purple of Pride, 
The trappings which ’dizen the proud? 

Alas! they are all laid aside, 

And here’s neither dress nor adornment 
allow’d, 

But the long winding-sheet and the fringe 
of the shroud. 

To Riches? alas ! ’tis in vain ; 

Who hid, in their turn have been hid; 

The treasures are squander’d again, 

And here in the grave are all metals for¬ 
bid, 

But the tinsel that shines on the dark cof¬ 
fin-lid. 


To the pleasures which Mirth can afford,— 

The revel, the laugh, and the jeer? 

Ah! here is a plentiful board ! 

But the guests are all mute as their pitiful 
cheer, 

And none but the worm is a reveller here. 

Shall we build to Affection and Love? 

Ah, no ! they have wither’d and died, 

Or fled with the spirit above : 

Friends, brothers, and sisters are laid side 
by side, 

Yet none have saluted, and none have re¬ 
plied. 

Unto Sorrow?—The dead cannot grieve; 

Not a sob, not a sigh meets mine ear, 

Which compassion itself could relieve. 

Ah! sweetly they slumber, nor hope, love, 
nor fear,— 

Peace, peace is the watchword, the only 
one here! 

Unto Death, to whom monarchs must 
bow? 

Ah, no! for his empire is known, 

And here there are trophies enow! 

Beneath, the cold dead, and around, the 
dark stone, 

Are the signs of a sceptre that none may 
disown! 

The first tabernacle to Hope we will 
build, 

And look for the sleepers around us to 
rise; 

The second to Faith, which ensures it 
fulfill’d; 

And the third to the'Lamb of the great 
sacrifice, 

Who bequeathed us them both when he 
rose to the skies. 

Herbert Knowles. 


Hallowed Ground. 

What’s hallow’d ground? Has earth a 
clod 

Its Maker meant not should be trod 
By man, the image of his God, 

Erect and free, 

Unscourged by superstition’s rod 
To bow the knee ? 










654 


FIRESIDE ENCYCLOPAEDIA OF POETRY. 


That’s hallow’d ground where, mourn’d and 
miss’d, 

The lips repose our love has kiss’d :— 

, But where’s their memory’s mansion ? Is’t 
Yon churchyard’s bowers? 

No! in ourselves their souls exist, 

A part of ours. 

A kiss can consecrate the ground 
Where mated hearts are mutual bound; 
The spot where love’s first links were 
wound, 

That ne’er are riven, 

Is hallow’d, down to earth’s profound, 

And up to heaven! 

For time makes all but true love old; 

The burning thoughts that then were 
told 

Run molten still in memory’s mould; 

And will not cool 
Until the heart itself be cold 
In Lethe’s pool. 

What hallows ground where heroes sleep? 
’Tis not the sculptured piles you heap !— 
In dews that heavens far distant weep 
Their turf may bloom, 

Or genii twine beneath the deep 
Their coral tomb. 

But strew his ashes to the wind 
Whose sword or voice has served man¬ 
kind— 

And is he dead whose glorious mind 
Lifts thine on high ?— 

To live in hearts we leave behind 
Is not to die. 

Is’t death to fall for Freedom’s right? 

He’s dead alone that lacks her light! 

And murder sullies in Heaven’s sight 
The sword he draws :— 

What can alone ennoble fight? 

A noble cause! 

Give that! and welcome War to brace 
Her drums, and rend Heaven’s reeking 
space! 

The colors planted face to face, 

The charging cheer, 

Though Death’s pale horse lead on the 
chase, 

Shall still be dear. 


And place our trophies where men kneel 
To Heaven!—But Heaven rebukes my 
zeal. 

The cause of truth and human weal, 

O God above! 

Transfer it from the sword’s appeal 
To Peace and Love. 

Peace! Love !—the cherubim that join 
Their spread wings o’er Devotion’s shrine! 
Prayers sound in vain, and temples shine, 
Where they are not; 

The heart alone can make divine 
Religion’s spot. 

To incantations dost thou trust, 

And pompous rites in domes august? 

See mouldering stones and metal’s rust 
Belie the vaunt, 

That men can bless one pile of dust 
With chime or chaunt. 

The ticking wood-worm mocks thee, man! 
Thy temples—creeds themselves grow wan ! 
But there’s a dome of nobler span, 

A temple given 

Thy faith, that bigots dare not ban— 

Its space is Heaven ! 

Its roof star-pictured Nature’s ceiling, 
Where, trancing the rapt spirit’s feeling, 
And God Himself to man revealing, 

The harmonious spheres 
Make music, though unheard their pealing 
By mortal ears. 

Fair stars ! are not your beings pure? 

Can sin, can death, your worlds obscure? 
Else why so swell the thoughts at your 
Aspect above? 

Ye must be heavens that make us sure 
Of heavenly love! 

And in your harmony sublime 
I read the doom of distant time: 

That man’s regenerate soul from crime 
Shall yet be drawn, 

And reason, on his mortal clime, 

Immortal dawn. 

What’s hallow’d ground? ’Tis what gives 
birth 

To sacred thoughts in souls of worth!— 





MORAL AND DIDACTIC POETRY. 


Coo 


j'eace! Independence! Truth! go forth, 
Earth’s compass round; 

And your high priesthood shall make 
earth 

All hallow’d ground! 

Thomas Campbell. 

Epitaph upon Husband and 
Wife 

wiio Died and were Buried together. 
To these, whom death again did wed, 
This grave’s the second marriage-bed, 
For though the hand of fate could force 
’Twixt soul and body a divorce, 

It could not sever man and wife, 

Because they both lived hut one life. 
Peace, good reader, do not weep 
Peace, the lovers are asleep ! 

They (sweet turtles) folded lie, 

In the last knot love could tie. 

Let them sleep, let them sleep on, 

Till this stormy night be gone, 

And the eternal morrow dawn ; 

Then the curtains will be drawn, 

And they wake into a light 
Whose day shall never end in night. 

Richard Crashaw. 


Elegy to the Memory of an 
Unfortunate Lady. 

What beck’ning ghost, along the moon¬ 
light shade, 

Invites my steps, and points to yonder 
glade ? 

’Tis she!—but why that bleeding bosom 
gored ? 

Why dimly gleams the visionary sword ? 

O ever beauteous ! ever friendly ! tell, 

Is it in Heav’n a crime to love too well? 

To bear too tender or too firm a heart, 

To act a lover’s or a Roman’s part ? 

Is there no bright reversion in the sky 

For those who greatly think or bravely 
die? 

Why bade ye else, ye pow’rs! her soul 
aspire 

Above the vulgar flight of low desire ? 

Ambition first sprung from your blest 
abodes, 

The glorious fault of angels and of gods : 


Thence to their images on earth it flows, 
And in the breasts of kings and heroes 
glows. 

Most souls, ’tis true, but peep out once an 
age, 

Dull sullen pris’ners in the body’s cage : 
Dim lights of life, that burn a length ®f 
years, 

Useless, unseen, as lamps in sepulchres ; 
Like Eastern kings, a lazy state they keep, 
And, close confined to their own palace, 
sleep. 

From these perhaps (ere Nature hade 
her die) 

Fate snatch’d her early to the pitying sky. 
As into air the purer spirits How, 

And sep’rate from their kindred dregs 
below ; 

So flew the soul to its congenial place, 

Nor left ope virtue to redeem her race. 

But thou, false guardian of a charge too 
good, 

Thou mean deserter of thy brother’s blood! 
See on these ruby lips the trembling 
breath, 

These cheeks now fading at the blast of 
death ! 

Cold is that breast which warm’d the 
world before, 

And those love-darting eyes must roll no 
more. 

Thus, if eternal justice rules the ball, 
Thus shall your wives, and thus your chil¬ 
dren fall: 

On all the line a sudden vengeance waits, 
And frequent hearses shall besiege your 
gates: 

There passengers shall stand, and pointing 
say 

(While the long fun’rals blacken all the 
way), 

“ Lo ! these were they, whose souls the 
Furies steel’d, 

And cursed with hearts unknowing how to 
yield.” 

Thus unlamented pass the proud away, 
The gaze of fools, and pageant of a day! 
So perish all, whose breast ne’er learn’d to 
glow 

For others’ good, or melt at others’ woe. 

What can atone (O ever-injured shade!) 
Thy fate unpitied and thy rites unpaid ? 











656 


FIRESIDE EN CYCLOP JED I A OF POETRY. 


No friend’s complaint, no kind domestic 
tear 

Pleased thy pale ghost, or graced thy 
mournful bier; 

By foreign hands thy dying eyes were 
closed, 

By foreign hands thy decent limbs com¬ 
posed, 

By foreign hands thy humble grave 
adorn’d, 

By strangers honor’d and by strangers 
mourn’d. 

What though no friends in sable weeds 
appear, 

Grieve for an hour, perhaps, then mourn a 
year, 

And bear about the mockery of woe 

To midnight dances and the public 
show? 

What though no weeping Loves thy ashes 
grace, 

Nor polish’d marble emulate thy face ? 

What though no sacred earth allow thee 
room, 

Nor hallow’d dirge be mutter’d o’er thy 
tomb ? 

Yet shall thy grave with rising flowers be 
dress’d, 

And the green turf lie lightly on thy 
breast: 

There shall the morn her earliest tears 
bestow, 

There the first roses of the year shall 
blow: 

While angels with their silver wings o’er- 
shade 

The ground now sacred by thy relics 
made. 

So peaceful rests, without a stone, a 
name, 

What once had beauty, titles, wealth, and 
fame. 

How loved, how honor’d once, avails thee 
not, 

To whom related, or by whom begot; 

A heap of dust alone remains of thee, 

’Tis all thou art, and all the proud shall 
be! 

Poets themselves must fall like those 
they sung, 

Deaf the praised ear, and mute the tune¬ 
ful tongue. 


Ev’n he, whose soul now melts in mourn¬ 
ful lays, 

Shall shortly want the gen’rous tear he 
pays; 

Then from his closing eyes thy form shall 
part, 

And the last pang shall tear thee from his 
heart; 

Life’s idle business at one gasp be o’er, 

The Muse forgot, and thou beloved no 
more! 

Alexander Pope. 

The Land o’ the Leal. 

I’m wearin’ awa’, Jean, 

Like snaw-wreaths in thaw, Jean, 

I’m wearin’ awa’ 

To the land o’ the leal. 

There’s nae sorrow there, Jean, 

There’s neither cauld nor care, Jean, 
The day is aye fair 
In the land o’ the leal. 

Our bonnie bairn’s there, Jean, 

She was baith gude and fair, Jean, 
And oh ! we grudged her sair 
To the land o’ the leal. 

But sorrow’s sel’ wears past, Jean, 

And joy’s a-comin’ fast, Jean, 

The joy that’s aye to last 
In the land o’ the leal. 

Sae dear that joy was bought, Jean, 
Sae free the battle fought, Jean, 

That sinfu’ man e’er brought 
To the land o’ the leal. 

Oh ! dry your glistening e’e, Jean, 

My soul langs to be free, Jean, 

And angels beckon me 
To the land o’ the leal. 

Oh ! haud ye leal and true, Jean, 
Your day it’s wearin’ thro’, Jean, 

And I’ll welcome you 
To the land o’ the leal. 

Now fare ye weel, my ain Jean, 

This warld’s cares are vain, Jean, 
We’ll meet, and we’ll be fain, 

In the land o’ the leal. 

Lady Carolina Nairne. 






MORAL AND DIDACTIC POETRY. 


657 


Stanzas. 

Farewell, life ! my senses swim, 
And the world is growing dim ; 
Thronging shadows cloud the light, 
Like the advent of the night,— 
Colder, colder, colder still, 

Upward steals a vapor chill; 

Strong the earthy odor grows,— 

I smell the mould above the rose ! 

Welcome, life ! the spirit strives ! 
Strength returns and hope revives : 
Cloudy fears and shapes forlorn 
Fly like shadows at the morn,— 

O’er the earth there comes a bloom ; 
Sunny light for sullen gloom, 

Warm perfume for vapor cold,— 

I smell the rose above the mould ! 

Thomas Hood. 

The Dying Man in his Garden. 

Why, Damon, with the forward day 
Dost thou thy little spot survey, 

From tree to tree, -with doubtful cheer, 
Pursue the progress of the year, 

What winds arise, what rains descend, 
When thou before that year shalt end ? 

What do thy noontide walks avail, 

To clear the leaf, and pick the snail, 
Then wantonly to death decree 
An insect usefuller than thee ? 

Thou and the worm are brother-kind, 

As low, as earthy, and as blind. 

Vain wretch ! canst thou expect to see 
The downy peach make court to thee ? 
Or that thy sense shall ever meet 
The bean-flower’s deep-embosom’d sweet 
Exhaling with an evening blast? 

Thy evenings then will all be past! 

Thy narrow pride, thy fancied green 
(For vanity’s in little seen), 

All must be left when Death appears, 

In spite of wishes, groans, and tears ; 
Nor one of all thy pjants that grow 
But Rosemary will with thee go. 

George Sewell. 


Dirge. 

From “ Cymbeline.” 

Fear no more the heat o’ the sun, 

Nor the furious winter’s rages; 

Thou thy w'orldly task hast done, 

Home art gone, and ta’en thy wages: 
Golden lads and lasses must, 

As chimney-sw'eepers, come to dust. 

Fear no more the frow r n o’ the great, 
Thou art past the tyrant’s stroke ; 
Care no more to clothe, and eat; 

To thee the reed is as the oak : 

The sceptre, learning, physic, must 
All follow this, and come to dust. 

Fear no more the lightning flash 
Nor the all-dreaded thunder-stone; 
Fear not slander, censure rash ; 

Thou hast finish’d joy and moan : 

All lovers young, all lovers must, 
Consign to thee, and come to dust. 

William Shakespeare. 

Dirge in Cymbeline. 

Sung by Guiderus and Arviragus over 
Fidele, supposed to be Dead. 

To fair Fidele’s grassy tomb 
Soft maids and village hinds shall bring 
Each opening sweet of earliest bloom, 

And rifle all the breathing spring. 

No wailing ghost shall dare appear, 

To vex with shrieks this quiet grove; 
But shepherd lads assemble here, 

And melting virgins own their love. 

No wither’d witch shall here be seen— 

No goblins lead their nightly crew ; 

The female fays shall haunt the green, 
And dress thy grave with pearly dew. 

The redbreast oft, at evening hours, 

Shall kindly lend his little aid, 

With hoary moss, and gather’d flowers, 

To deck the ground where thou art laid. 

When howling winds and beating rain 
In tempests shake the sylvan cell, 

Or ’midst the chase, on every plain, 

The tender thought on thee shall dwell, 


42 






658 


FIRESIDE ENCYCLOPAEDIA OF POETRY. 


Each lonely scene shall thee restore, 

For thee the tear be duly shed; 

Beloved till life can charm no more, 

And mourn’d till Pity’s self be dead. 

I William Collins. 

Dirge. 

From “ The White Devil.” 

Call for the robin-redbreast and the wren, 
Since o’er shady groves they hover, 

And w T ith leaves and flowers do cover 
The friendless bodies of unburied men. 
Call unto his funeral dole 
The ant, the field-mouse, and the mole, 

To raise him hillocks that shall keep him 
warm. 

And, when gay tombs are robb’d, sustain 
no harm ; 

But keep the wolf far thence, that’s foe to 
men, 

For w T ith his nails he’ll dig them up again. 

John Webster. 

Dirge. 

Softly! 

She is lying 
With her lips apart; 

Softly! 

She is dying of a broken heart. 

Whisper! 

She is going 

To her final rest; 

Whisper I 
Life is growing 
Dim within her breast. 

Gently ! 

She is sleeping; 

She has breathed her last! 

Gently! 

While you’re weeping, 

She to heaven has pass’d. 

Charles Gamage Eastman. 

Friend after Friend Departs. 

Friend after friend departs: 

Who hath not lost a friend? 

There is no union here of hearts 
That finds not here an end; 


Were this frail world our only rest, 

Living or dying, none were blest. 

Beyond the flight of time, 

Beyond this vale of death, 

There surely is some blessed clime 
Where life is not a breath, 

Nor life’s affections transient fire, 

Whose sparks fly upward to expire. 

There is a world above, 

Where parting is unknown ; 

A whole eternity of love, 

Form’d for the good alone; 

And faith beholds the dying here 
Translated to that happier sphere. 

Thus star by star declines, 

Till all are pass’d away, 

As morning high and higher shines, 

To pure and perfect day; 

| Nor sink those stars in empty night; 

They hide themselves in heaven’s own 
light. 

James Montgomery 


Gane were but the Winter 
Ca uld. 

Gane were but the winter cauld, 
And gane were but the snaw, 

I could sleep in the wild woods, 
Where primroses blaw. 

Cauld’s the snaw at my head, 

And cauld at my feet, 

And the finger o’ Death’s at my e’en, 
Closing them to sleep. 

Let nane tell my father 
Or my mither sae dear ; 

I’ll meet them baith in heaven 
At the spring o’ the year. 

Allan Cunningham. 


The Alpine Sheep. 

When on my ear your loss was knell’d, 
And tender sympathy upburst, 

A little spring from memory well’d, 

Which once had quench’d my bittei 
thirst. 







MORAL AND DIDACTIC POETRY. 


659 


And I was fain to bear to yon 
A portion of its mild relief, 

That it might be as healing dew, 

To steal some fever from your grief. 

After our child’s untroubled breath 
Up to the Father took its way, 

And on our home the shade of Death 
Like a long twilight haunting lay, 

And friends came round, with us to w r eep 
Her little spirit’s swift remove, 

The story of the Alpine sheep 
YV'as told to us by one w'e love. 

They, in the valley’s sheltering care, 

Soon crop the meadov ? ’s tender prime, 
And when the sod grows brown and bare, 
The shepherd strives to make them climb 

To airy shelves of pasture green, 

That hang along the mountain’s side, 
Where grass and flowers together lean, 
And down through mist the sunbeams 
slide. 

Tut naught can tempt the timid things 
'fhe steep and rugged paths to try, 
Though sweet the shepherd calls and sings, 
And sear’d below the pastures lie, 

Till in his arms their lambs he takes, 
Along the dizzy verge to go ; 

Then, heedless of the rifts and breaks, 
They follow on, o’er rock and snow. 

And in those pastures,'lifted fair, 

More dewy-soft than lowland: mead, 

The shepherd drops his tender care, 

And sheep and lambs together feed. 

This parable, by Nature breathed, 

Blew' on me as the south wind free 
O’er frozen brooks, that flow unsheathed 
From icy thraldrom to the sea. 

A blissful vision, through the night, 
Would all my happy senses sway, 

Of the good Shepherd on the height, 

Or climbing up the starry way, 

Holding our little lamb asleep,— 

While, like the murmur of the sea, 
Sounded that voice along the deep, 

Saying, “ Arise and follow' me !” 

Maria White Lowell. 


Tom bowling. 

Here, a sheer hulk, lies poor Tom Bowling, 
The darling of our crew ; 

No more he’ll hear the tempest howling— 
For Death has broach’d him to. 

His form w r as of the manliest beauty; 

His heart w r as kind and soft; 

Faithful below he did his duty; 

But now' lie’s gone aloft. 

Tom never from his word departed— 

His virtues were so rare; 

His friends were many and true-hearted ; 

His Poll w'as kind and fair. 

And then he’d sing so blithe and jolly— 
Ah, many’s the time and oft! 

But mirth is turn’d to melancholy, 

For Tom is gone aloft. 

Yet shall poor Tom find pleasant w'eather, 
When He, who all commands, 

Shall give, to call life’s crew' together, 

The W'ord to pipe all hands. 

Thus Death, who kings and tars despatches. 
In vain Tom’s life lias doff’d ; 

For, though his body’s under hatches, 

His soul is gone aloft. 

Charles Dibdin. 


The Last Visitor. 

“ Who is it knocks this stormy night? 

Be very careful of the light,” 

The good-man said to his w'ife, 

And the good-w'ife w'ent to the door; 
But never again in all his life 
Will the good-man see her more. 

For he who knocked that night was Death, 
And the light went out w'ith a little breath; 
And the good-man will miss his wife, 
Till he, too, goes to the door, 

When Death will carry him up to Life, 
To behold her face once more. 

Henry Ames Blood. 

Little Things. 

Little drops of water, 

Little grains of sand, 

Make the mighty ocean 
And the pleasant land. 













FIRESIDE ENCYCLOPAEDIA OF POETRY. 


600 


Thus the little minutes, 

Humble though they be 
Make the mighty ages 
Of Eternity. 

Thus our little errors 
Lead the soul away 
From the path of virtue, 

Off in sin to stray. 

Little deeds of kindness, 

Little words of love, 

Make our earth an Eden 
Like the heaven above. 

Frances Sargent Osgood. 

The Closing Scene. 

Within his sober realm of leafless trees 

The russet year inhaled the dreamy air ; 

Like some tann’d reaper in his hour of 
ease, 

When all the fields are lying brown and 
bare. 

The gray barns looking from their hazy 
hills 

O’er the dim waters widening in the 
vales, 

Sent down the air a greeting to the mills, 

On the dull thunder of alternate flails. 

All sights were mellow’d and all sounds 
subdued, 

The hills seem’d farther and the streams 
sang low; 

As in a dream the distant woodman hew’d 

His winter log with many a muffled 
blow. 

The embattled forests, erewliile arm’d in 
gold, 

Their banners bright with every martial 
hue, 

Now stood, like some sad beaten host of 
old, 

Withdrawn afar in Time’s remotest blue. 

On slumb’rous wings the vulture held his 
flight; 

The dove scarce heard its sighing mate’s 
complaint ; 

And like a star slow drowning in the light, 

The village cliurcli-vane seem’d to pale 
and faint. 


The sentinel-cock upon the hillside crew, 
Crew thrice, and all was stiller than be¬ 
fore,— 

Silent till some replying warder blew 
His alien horn, and then was heard no 
more. 

Where erst the jay, within the elm’s tall 
crest, 

Made garrulous trouble round her un¬ 
fledged young, 

And where the oriole hung her swayin* 
nest, 

By every light wind like a censer 
swung;— 

Where sang the noisy masons of the eaves, 
The busy swallows circling ever near, 

Foreboding, as the rustic mind believes, 

An early harvest and a plenteous 
year 

Where every bird which charm’d the ver¬ 
nal feast, 

Shook the sweet slumber from its wings 
at morn, 

To w T arn the reaper of the rosy east,—• 

All now was songless, empty, and for¬ 
lorn. 

Alone from out the stubble piped the 
quail, 

And croak’d the crow through all the 
dreamy gloom ; 

Alone the pheasant, drumming in the vale. 

Made echo to the distant cottage loom. 

0 

There was no bud, no bloom, upon the 
bowers; 

The spiders wove their thin shrouds 
night by night; 

The thistle-down, the only ghost of flowers, 
Sail’d slowly by, pass’d noiseless out of 
sight. 

j Amid all this, in this most cheerless air, 
And where the woodbine shed upon the 
porch 

Its crimson leaves, as if the Year stood 
there 

Firing the floor with his inverted torch ; 

Amid all this, the centre of the scene, 

The white-hair’d matron with monoto¬ 
nous tread, 










MORAL AND DIDACTIC POETRY. 


661 


Plied the swift wheel, and with her joyless 1 
mien, 

Sat, like a Fate, and watch’d the flying 
thread. 

She had known Sorrow,—he had walk’d 
with her, 

Oft supp’d and broke the bitter ashen 
crust; 

And in the dead leaves still she heard the 
stir 

Of his black mantle trailing in the 
dust. 

While yet her cheek was bright with sum¬ 
mer bloom, 

Her country summon’d and she gave her 
all; 

And twice War bow’d to her his sable 
plume,—- 

Regave the swords to rust upon her 
wall. 

Regave the swords,—but not the hand that 
drew 

And struck for Liberty its dying blow, 

Nor him who, to his sire and country true, 

Fell ’mid the ranks of the invading foe. 

Long, but not loud, the droning wheel 
went on, 

Like the low murmur of a hive at noon ; : 

Long, but not loud, the memory of the 
gone 

Breathed through her lips a sad and 
tremulous tune. 

At last the thread was snapp’d : her head 
was bow’d: 

Life dropt the distaff through his hands 
serene; 

And loving neighbors smoothed her care¬ 
ful shroud, 

While Death and Winter closed the j 
autumn scene. 

Thomas Buchanan Read. 

A Valediction Forbidding 
MOURNING. 

As virtuous men pass mildly away, 

And whisper to their souls to go, 

Whilst some of their sad friends, do say, 

The breath goes now, and some say no; { 


So let us melt, and make no noise, 

No tear-floods, nor sigh-tempests move; 

’Twere profanation of our joys, 

To tell the laity our love. 

Moving of the earth brings harms and fears, 
Men reckon what it did and meant; 

But trepidation of the spheres, 

Though greater far, is innocent. 

Dull sublunary Lovers’ love 

(Whose soul is sense) cannot admit 

Absence, because it doth remove 
Those things which elemented it. 

But we by a love so much refined, 

That ourselves know not what it is, 

Inter-assured of the mind, 

Care less eyes, lips, and hands to miss. 

Our two souls, therefore, which are one, 
Though I must go, endure not yet 

A breach, but an expansion, 

Like gold to airy thinness beat. 

If they be two, they are two so 
As stiff twin compasses are two; 

Thy soul, the fixt foot, makes no show 
To move, but doth if the other do. 

And though it in the centre sit, 

Yet when the other far doth roam, 

It leans and hearkens after it, 

And grows erect, as that comes home. 

Such wilt thou be to me, who must, 

Like the other foot obliquely run. 

Thy firmness makes my circle just, 

And makes me end where I begun. 

John Donne. 

Sonnet.—Oz yma ndias. 

I met a traveller from an antique land 

Who said : Two vast and trunkless legs of 
stone 

Stand in the desert. Near them, on the 
sand, 

Half sunk, a shattered visage lies, whose 
frown, 

And wrinkled lip, and sneer of cold com¬ 
mand, 

Tell that its sculptor well those passions read 

Which yet survive, stamped on these life¬ 
less things, 

The hand that mocked them and the heart 
that fed: 











662 


FIRESIDE ENCYCLOPAEDIA OF POETRY. 


And on the pedestal these words appear: 

“ My name is Ozymandias, king of kings : 
Look on my works, ye Mighty, and despair!” 
Nothing beside remains. Round the decay 
Of that colossal wreck, boundless and bare, 
The lone and level sands stretch far away. 

Percy Bysshe Shelley. 

I 

LIFE. 

Why all this toil for triumphs of an hour? 

(Young 

Life’s a short summer,—man a flower, 

(Dr. Johnson 

By turns we catch the vital breath and die. 

(Pope 

The cradle and the tomb, alas! too nigh. 

(Prior 

To be is far better than not to be, (Sewell 
Though all man’s life may seem a tragedy, 

(Spencer 

But light cares speak when mighty griefs 
are dumb: (Daniel 

The bottom is but shallow whence they 
come. (Sir W. Raleigh 

Your fate is but the common fate of all: 

(Longfellow 

Unmingled joys here to no man befall 

(Southwell 

Nature to each allots his proper sphere, 

(Congreve 

Fortune makes folly her peculiar care. 

(Churchill 

Custom does often reason overrule, 

(Armstrong 

A cruel sunshine on a fool. (Rochester 

Live well, how long or short—permit to 
heaven; (Milton 

Those who forgive the most shall be most 
forgiven. (Baily 

Sin may be clasped so close you cannot see 
its face; (French 

Vile intercourse where virtue has no place. 

(Somerville 

Then keep each passion down, however 
dear. (Thomson 

Thou pendulum betwixt a smile and tear. 

(Byron 

Her sensual snares let faithless pleasures 
lay, (Smollett 

With craft and skill—to ruin and betray. 

(Crabbe 


| Soar not too high to fall, but stoop to rise, 

(Massinger 

We masters grow of all that we despise. 

(Cowley 

Oh, then remove that impious self-esteem, 

(Beattie 

Riches have wings, and grandeur is a dream. 

(Cowper 

Think not ambition wise because ’tis brave ; 

(Davenant 

The paths of glory lead but to the grave, 

(Gray 

What is ambition ? ’tis a glorious cheat, 

(Willis 

Only destruction on the brave and great. 

(Addison 

j What’s all the gaudy glitter of a crown? 

(Dryden 

, The way to bliss lies not on beds of down. 

(J. Quarles 

How long we live not years but actions tell, 

(Watkins 

The man lives twice who lives the first life 
well. (Merrick 

Make, then, while yet ye may, your God 
your friend, (Mason 

Whom Christians worship, yet none com¬ 
prehend. (Hill 

The trust that’s given guard, and to your¬ 
self be just, (Dana 

For, live we how we can, to die we must 

(Shakespeare. 

To a Skeleton. 

Behold this ruin ! ’Twas a skull 
Once of ethereal spirit full. - 
This narrow cell was Life’s retreat, 

This space was Thought’s mysterious seat. 
What beauteous visions fill’d this spot! 
What dreams of pleasure long forgot! 

Nor hope, nor joy, nor love, nor fear, 

Have left one trace of record here. 

Beneath this mouldering canopy 
Once shone the bright and busy eye, 

But start not at the dismal void,— 

If social love that eye employ’d, 

If with no lawless fire it gleam’d, 

But through the dews of kindness beam’d, 
That eye shall be for ever bright 
When stars and sun are sunk in night. 







MORAL ANI) DIDACTIC POETRY. 


G63 


Within this hollow cavern hung 
The ready, swift, and tuneful tongue; 

If Falsehood’s honey it disdain’d, 

And when it could not praise was chain’d; 
If bold in Virtue’s cause it spoke, 

Yet gentle concord never broke,— 

This silent tongue shall plead for thee 
When Time unveils Eternity ! 

Say, did these fingers delve the mine? 

Or with the envied rubies shine? 

To hew the rock or wear a gem 
Can little now avail to them. 

But if the page of Truth they sought, 

Or comfort to the mourner brought, 

These hands a richer meed shall claim 
Than all that wait on Wealth and Fame. 

Avails it whether bare or shod 
These feet the paths of duty trod ? 

If from the bowers of Ease they fled, 

To seek Affliction’s humble shed ; 

If Grandeur’s guilty bribe they spurn’d, 
And home to Virtue’s cot return’d,— 
These feet with angel wings shall vie, 

And tread the palace of the sky! 

Author Unknown. 

kx r 

The Unseen World—at Home. 

When I was dead, my spirit turn’d 
To seek the much-frequented house : 

I pass’d the door, and saw my friends 
Feasting beneath green orange-boughs; 
From hand to hand they push’d the wine, 
They suck’d the pulp of plum and peach; 
They sang, they jested, and they laugh’d, 
For each was lov’d of each. 

I listen’d to their honest chat— 

Said one: “ To-morrow we shall be 
Plodding along the featureless sands, 

And coasting miles and miles of sea.” 
Said one: “ Before the turn of tide 
We will achieve the eyrie-seat.” 

Said one: “To-morrow shall be like 
To-day, but much more sweet.” 

“To-morrow,” said they, strong with hope, 
And dwelt upon the pleasant way; 
“To-morrow,” cried they, one and all, 
While no one spoke of yesterday. 


Their life stood full at blessed noon ; 

I, only I, had pass’d away : 
“To-morrow and to-day,” they cried; 

I was of yesterday. 

I shiver’d comfortless, but cast 
No chill across the table-cloth ; 

I, all forgotten, shiver’d, sad 
To stay, and yet to part how loath: 

I pass’d from the familiar room, 

I, who from love had pass’d away, 
Like the remembrance of a guest 
That tarrieth but a day. 

Christina Georgina Rossetti. 


The Other World. 

It lies around us like a cloud, 

The world we do not see; 

Yet the sweet closing of an eye 
May bring us there to be. 

Its gentle breezes fan our cheeks 
Amid our worldly cares; 

Its gentle voices whisper love, 

And mingle with our prayers. 

Sweet hearts around us throb and beat, 
Sweet helping hands are stirred, 

And palpitates the veil between, 

With breathings almost heard. 

The silence, awful, sweet, and calm, 
They have no power to break ; 

For mortal words are not for them 
To utter or partake. 

So thin, so soft, so sweet they glide, 

So near to press they seem, 

They lull us gently to our rest, 

They melt into our dream. 

And, in the hush of rest they bring, 
’Tis easy now to see 

How lovely and how sweet a pass 
The hour of death may be. 

To close the eye and close the ear, 
Wrapped in a trance of bliss, 

And, gently drawn in loving arms, 

To swoon from that to this. 

Scarce knowing if we wake or sleep, 
Scarce asking where we are, 

To feel all evil sink away, 

All sorrow and all care ! 








G64 


( 

FIRESIDE ENCYCLOPAEDIA OF POETRY. 


Sweet souls around us ! watch us still, 
Press nearer to our side; 

Into our thoughts, into our prayers, 

With gentle helping glide. 

Let death between us be as naught, 

A dried and vanished stream ; 

Your joy be the reality, 

Our suffering life the dream. 

Harriet Beecher Stowe. 

Ode. 

Intimations of Immortality from 
Recollections of Early Childhood. 

i. 

There was a time when meadow, grove, 
and stream, 

The earth, and every common sight, 

To me did seem 
Apparell’d in celestial light, 

The glory and the freshness of a dream. 

It is not now as it hath been of yore; 
Turn wheresoe’er I may, 

By night or day, 

The things which I have seen I now can 
see no more. 

ii. 

The Rainbow comes and goes, 

And lovely is the Rose, 

The Moon doth with delight 
Look round her when the heavens are 
bare, 

Waters on a starry night 
Are beautiful and fair ; 

The sunshine is a glorious birth ; 

But yet I know, where’er I go, 

That there hath pass’d away a glory from 
the earth. 


ill. 

Now, while the birds thus sing a joyous 
song, 

And while the young lambs bound 
As to the tabor’s sound, 

To me alone there came a thought of 
grief: 

A timely utterance gave that thought re¬ 
lief, 

And I again am strong: 


The cataracts blow their trumpets from the 
steep ; 

No more shall grief of mine the season 
wrong; 

I hear the Echoes through the mountains 
throng, 

The Winds come to me from the fields of 
sleep, 

And all the earth is gay ; 

Land and sea 

Give themselves up to jollity, 

And with the heart of May 
Doth every Beast keep holiday ;— 
Thou Child of Joy, 

Shout round me, let me hear thy shouts, 
thou happy 
Shepherd boy! 

IY. 

Ye blessed Creatures, I have heard the call 
Ye to each other make ; I see 
The heavens laugh with you in your jubilee; 
My heart is at your festival, 

My head hath its coronal, 

The fulness of your bliss, I feel—I feel it all. 
O evil day ! if I were sullen 
While Earth herself is adorning, 

This sweet May morning, 

And the Children are culling 
On every side, 

In a thousand valleys far and wide, 
Fresh flowers; while the sun shines warm, 
And the Babe leaps up on his Mother’s 
arm:— 

I hear, I hear, with joy I hear! 

—But there’s a Tree, of many, one, 

A single Field which I have look’d upon, 
Both of them speak of something that is 
gone: 

The Pansy at my feet 
Doth the same tale repeat: 
Whither is fled the visionary gleam ? 
Where is it now, the glory and the dream? 

v. 

Our birth is but a sleep and a forgetting : 
The Soul that rises with us, our life’s 
Star, 

Hath had elsewhere its setting, 

And cometh from afar : 

Not in entire forgetfulness, 

And not in utter nakedness, 





MORAL AND DIDACTIC POETRY. 


665 


But trailing clouds of glory do we come 
From God, who is our home : 

Heaven lies about us in our infancy ! 
Shades of the prison-house begin to close 
Upon the growing Bov, 

But he beholds the light, and whence it 
flows, 

He sees it in his joy ; 

The Youth, who daily farther from the east 
Must travel, still is Nature’s Priest, 
And by the vision splendid 
Is on his way attended ; 

At length the Man perceives it die away, 
And fade into the light of common day. 

VI. 

Earth Alls her lap with pleasures of her 
own; 

Yearnings she hath in her own natural 
kind, 

And, even with something of a Mother’s 
mind, 

And no unworthy aim, 

The homely Nurse doth all she can 
To make her Foster-child, her Inmate Man, 
Forget the glories he hath known, 
And that imperial palace whence he came. 

VII. 

Behold the child among his new-born 
blisses, 

A six years’ Darling of a pigmy size! 
See, where’mid work of his own hand he 
lies, 

Fretted by sallies of his mother’s kisses, 
With light upon him from his father’s 
eyes! 

See, at his feet, some little plan or chart, 
Some fragment from his dream of 
human life, 

Shaped by himself with newly-learnfed 
art; 

A wedding or a festival, 

A mourning or a funeral; 

And this hath now his heart, 

And unto this he frames his song: 
Then will he fit his tongue 
To dialogues of business, love, or strife; 
But it will not be long 
Ere this be thrown aside, 

And with new joy and pride 
The little Actor cons another part; 


Filling from time to time his “humorous 
stage ” 

With all the Persons, down to palsied Age, 
That Life brings with her in her equipage; 
As if his whole vocation 
Were endless imitation. 

VIII. 

Thou, whose exterior semblance doth belie 
The Soul’s immensity; 

Thou best Philosopher, who yet dost keep 
Thy heritage, thou Eye among the blind, 
That, deaf and silent, read’st the eternal 
deep, 

Haunted for ever by the eternal mind,— 
Mighty Prophet! Seer blest! 

On whom those truths do rest, 

Which we are toiling all our lives to find, 
In darkness lost, the darkness of the grave; 

Thou, over whom thy Immortality 
Broods like the Day, a Master o’er a 
Slave, 

A Presence which is not to be put by; 
Thou little Child, yet glorious in the 
might 

Of heaven-born freedom on thy being’s 
height, 

Why with such earnest pains dost thou 
provoke 

The years to bring the inevitable yoke, 
Thus blindly with thy blessedness at 
strife? 

Full soon thy Soul shall have her earthly 
freight, 

And custom lie upon thee with a weight, 
Heavy as frost, and deep almost as life ! 

IX. 

Oh joy! that in our embers 
Is something that doth live, 

That Nature yet remembers 
What was so fugitive ! 

The thought of our past years in me 
doth breed 

Perpetual benediction : not indeed 
For that which is most worthy to be blest 
Delight and liberty, the simple creed 
Of Childhood, whether busy or at rest, 
With new-fledged hope still fluttering in 
his breast:— 

Not for these I raise 

The song of thanks and praise: 





FIRESIDE ENCYCLOPEDIA OF POETRY. 


t>()G 


But for those obstinate questionings 
Of sense and outward things 
Fallings from us, vanishings; 

Blank misgivings of a Creature 
Moving about in worlds not realized, 

High instincts before which our mortal 
Nature 

Did tremble like a guilty thing surprised: 
But for those first affections 
Those shadowy recollections, 

Which, be they what they may, 

Are yet the fountain-light of all our day, 
Are yet a master light of all our seeing; 
Uphold us, cherish, and have power to 
make 

Our noisy years seem moments in the 
being 

Of the eternal Silence: truths that wake, 
To perish never; 

Which neither listlessness, nor mad en¬ 
deavor, 

Nor Man nor Boy, 

Nor all that is at enmity with joy, 

Can utterly abolish or destroy ! 

Hence in a season of calm weather 
Though inland far we be, 

Our souls have sight of that immortal sea 
Which brought us hither, 

Can in a moment travel thither, 

And see the Children sport upon the 
shore, 

And hear the mighty waters rolling ever¬ 
more. 

x. 

Then sing, ye Birds, sing, sing a joyous 
song! 

And let the young Lambs bound 
As to the tabor’s sound ; 

We in thought will join your throng, 

Ye that pipe and ye that play, 

Ye that through your hearts to-day 
Feel the gladness of the May ! 

What though the radiance which was once 
so bright 

Be now for ever taken from my sight, 
Though nothing can bring back the hour 
Of splendor in the grass, of glory in the 
flower; 

We will grieve not, rather find 
Strength in what remains behind ; 

In the primal sympathy 
Which having been must ever be ; 


In the soothing thoughts that spring 

Out of human suffering; 

In the faith that looks through death, 

In years that bring the philosophic mind. 

XI. 

And 0 ye Fountains, Meadows, Hills, and 
Groves, 

Forebode not any severing of our loves? 

Yet in my heart of hearts I feel your might; 

I only have relinquish’d one delight 

To live beneath your more habitual sway. 

I love the Brooks which down their chan¬ 
nels fret, 

Even more than when I tripp’d lightly as 
they; 

The innocent brightness of a new-born 
Day 

Is lovely yet; 

The Clouds that gather round the setting 
sun 

Do take a sober, coloring from an eye 

That hath kept watch o’er man’s mortal' 
ity; 

Another race hath been, and other palms 
are won. 

Thanks to the human heart by which we 
live, 

Thanks to its tenderness, its joys, and 
fears, 

To me the meanest flower that blows can 
give 

Thoughts that do often lie too deep for 
tears. 

William Wordsworth. 


Resignation. 

There is no flock, however watch’d and 
tended, 

But one dead lamb is there! 

There is no fireside, howsoe’er defended, 
But has one vacant chair! 

The air is full of farewells to the dying, 
And mournings for the dead ; 

The heart of Rachel, for her children crying, 
Will not be comforted ! 

Let us be pa tient! These severe afflictions 
Not from the ground arise, 

But oftentimes celestial benedictions 
Assume this dark disguise. 












MORAL AND DIDACTIC POETRY. 


667 


We see but dimly through the mists and 
vapors; 

Amid these earthly damps 
What seem to us but sad, funereal tapers 

May be heaven’s distant lamps. 

There is no Death ! What seems so is tran¬ 
sition : 

This life of mortal breath 
Is but a suburb of the life elysian, 

Whose portal we call Death. 

She is not dead,—the child of our affec¬ 
tion,— 

Hut gone unto that school 
Where she no longer needs our poor pro¬ 
tection, 

And Christ Himself doth rule. 

In that great cloister’s stillness and seclu¬ 
sion, 

By guardian angels led,' 

Safe from temptation, safe from sin’s pollu¬ 
tion, 

She lives whom we call dead. 

Day after day we think what she is doing 

In those bright realms of air; 

Year after year, her tender steps pursuing, 

Behold her grown more fair. 

Thus do we walk with her, and keep un¬ 
broken 

The bond which Nature gives, 

Thinking that our remembrance, though 
unspoken, 

May reach her where she lives. 

Not as a child shall we again behold her; 

For when with raptures wild 
In our embraces we again enfold her, 

She will not be a child : 

But a fair maiden, in her Father’s mansion, 

Clothed with celestial grace; 

And beautiful with all the soul’s expan¬ 
sion 

Shall we behold her face. 

And though, at times, impetuous with 
emotion 

And anguish long suppress’d, 

The swelling heart heaves moaning like 
the ocean, 

That cannot be at rest,— 


We will he patient, and assuage the feel¬ 
ing 

We may not wholly stay ; 

By silence sanctifying, not concealing, 

The grief that must have way. 

Henry Wadsworth Longfellow. 


The Crowded Street. 

Let me move slowly through the street, 
Fill’d with an ever-shifting train, 

Amid the sound of steps that beat 
The murmuring walks like autumn rain. 

How fast the flitting figures come ! 

The mild, the fierce, the stony face— 
Some bright with thoughtless smiles, and 
some 

Where secret tears have left their trace. 

They pass to toil, to strife, to rest— 

To halls in which the feast is spread— 
To chambers where the funeral guest 
In silence sits beside the dead. 

And some to happy homes repair, 

Where children, pressing cheek to cheek, 
With mute caresses shall declare 
The tenderness they cannot speak. 

And some, who walk in calmness here, 
Shall shudder as they reach the door 
Where one who made their dwelling dear, 
Its flower, its light, is seen no more. 

Youth, with pale cheek and slender frame, 
And dreams of greatness in thine eye ! 
Go’st thou to build an early name, 

Or early in the task to die ? 

Keen son of trade with eager brow ! 

Who is now fluttering in thy snare ? 

Thy golden fortunes, tower they now, 

Or melt the glittering spires in air ? 

Who of this crowd to-night shall tread 
The dance till daylight gleam again ? 
Who sorrow o’er the untimgly dead ? 

Who writhe in throes of mortal pain ? 

Some, famine-struck, shall think how long 
The cold, dark hours, how slow the 
light; 

And some, who flaunt amid the throng, 
Shall hide in dens of shame to-night. 







668 


FIRESIDE ENCYCLOPAEDIA OF POETRY. 


Each where his tasks or pleasures call, 
They pass, and heed each other not. 
There is Who heeds, Who holds them all 
In His large love and boundless thought. 

These struggling tides of life, that seem 
In wayward, aimless course to tend, 

Are eddies of the mighty stream 
That rolls to its appointed end. 

William Cullen Bryant. 


The Hermit. 

At the close of the day, when the hamlet 
is still, 

And mortals the sweets of forgetfulness 
prove, 

When naught but the torrent is heard on 
the hill, 

And naught but the nightingale’s song 
in the grove, 

’Twas thus, by the cave of the mountain 
afar, 

While his harp rung symphonious, a 
hermit began ; 

No more with himself or with Nature at 
war, 

He thought as a sage, though he felt as 
a man: 

“ Ah ! why, all abandon’d to darkness and 
woe, 

Why, lone Philomela, that languishing 
fall ? 

For spring shall return, and a lover be¬ 
stow, 

And sorrow no longer thy bosom in¬ 
thrall. 

But, if pity inspire thee, renew the sad 
lay,— 

Mourn, sweetest complainer, man calls 
thee to mourn ; 

Oh, soothe him whose pleasures like thine 
pass away! 

Full quickly they pass,—but they never 
return. 

“Now, gliding remote on the verge of the 
sky, 

The moon, half extinguish’d, her cres¬ 
cent displays ; 


But lately I mark’d when majestic on 
high 

She shone, and the planets were lost in 
her blaze. 

Roll on, thou fair orb, and with gladness 
pursue 

The path that conducts thee to splendor 
again! 

But man’s faded glory what change shall 
renew ? 

Ah, fool! to exult in a glory so vain ! 

“ ’Tis night, and the landscape is lovely 
no more. 

T mourn, but, ye woodlands, I mourn 
not for you; 

For morn is approaching your charms to 
restore, 

Perfumed with fresh fragrance, and glit¬ 
tering with dew. 

Nor yet for the ravage of winter I 
mourn,— 

Kind Nature the embryo blossom will 
save; 

But when shall spring visit the moulder¬ 
ing urn ? 

Oh, when shall day dawn on the night 
of the grave? 

“ ’Twas thus, by the glare of false science 
betray’d, 

That leads to bewilder, and dazzles to 
blind, 

My thoughts wont to roam from shade on¬ 
ward to shade, 

Destruction before me, and sorrow be¬ 
hind. 

‘Oh pity, great Father of light,’ then I 
cried, 

‘ Thy creature, who fain would not wan¬ 
der from Thee! 

Lo, humbled in dust, I relinquish my 
pride; 

From doubt and from darkness Thou 
only canst free!’ 

“ And darkness and doubt are now flying 
away; 

No longer I roam in conjecture forlorn. 

So breaks on the traveller, faint and astray, 

The bright and the balmy effulgence of 
morn. 




MORAL AN1) DIDACTIC POETRY. 


6(19 


See truth, love, and mercy in triumph 
descending, 

And Nature all glowing in Eden’s first 
bloom! 

On the cold cheek of death smiles and 
roses are blending, 

And beauty immortal awakes from the 
tomb.” 

James Beattie. 


The Vanity of Human Wishes. 

Tn Imitation of the Tenth Satire of 
Juvenal. 

Let Observation, with extensive view, 

Survey mankind from China to Peru; 

Remark each anxious toil, each eager 
strife, 

And watch the busy scenes of crowded 
life; 

Then say how hope and fear, desire and 
hate, 

O’ersp'read with snares the clouded maze 
of fate, 

Where wavering man, betray’d by ventur¬ 
ous pride 

To chase the dreary paths without a 
guide, 

As treacherous phantoms in the midst 
delude, 

Shuns fancied ills, or chases airy good ; 

How rarely reason guides the stubborn 
choice, 

Rules the bold hand, or prompts the sup¬ 
pliant voice; 

How nations sink, by darling schemes op¬ 
press’d, 

When Vengeance listens to the fool’s re¬ 
quest. 

Fate wings with every wish th’ afflictive 
dart, 

Each gift of Nature and each grace of 
art; 

With fatal heat impetuous courage glows, 

With fatal sweetness elocution flows, 

Impeachment stops the speaker’s powerful 
breath, 

And restless fire precipitates on death. 

But, scarce observed, the knowing and 
the bold 

Fall in the general massacre of gold; 


Wide wasting pest! that rages unconfined 
And crowds with crimes the records of 
mankind; 

For gold his sword the hireling ruffian 
draws, 

For gold the hireling judge distorts the 
laws; 

Wealth heap’d on wealth, nor truth nor 
safety buys, 

The dangers gather as the treasures rise. 

Let History tell where rival kings com¬ 
mand, 

And dubious title shakes the madded land, 
When statutes glean the refuse of the 
sword, 

How much more safe the vassal than the 
lord ! 

Low skulks the hind below the rage of 
power, 

And leaves the wealthy traitor in the 
Tower; 

Untouch’d his cottage, and his slumbers 
sound, 

Though Confiscation’s vultures hover 
round. 

The needy traveller, serene and gay, 
Walks the wild heath, and sings his toil 
away. 

Does envy seize thee? crush th’ upbraid¬ 
ing joy, 

Increase his riches, and his peace de¬ 
stroy : 

Now fears in dire vicissitude invade, 

The rustling brake alarms, and quivering 
shade, 

Nor light nor darkness bring his pain 
relief, 

One shows the plunder and one hides the 
thief. 

Yet still one general cry the skies assails, 
And gain and grandeur load the tainted 
gales; 

Few know the toiling statesman’s fear or 
care, 

The insidious rival and the gaping heir. 

Once more, Democritus, arise on earth, 
With cheerful wisdom and instructive 
mirth; 

See motley life in modern trappings dress’d, 
And feed with varied fools th’ eternal jest: 










FIRESIDE ENCYCLOPAEDIA OF POETR Y. 


G/0 


Thou who couldst laugh, where want en¬ 
chain’d caprice, 

Toil crush’d conceit, and man was of a 
piece; 

Where wealth unloved without a mourner 
died, 

And scarce a sycophant was fed by pride; 

Where ne’er was known the form of mock 
debate, 

Or seen a new-made mayor’s unwieldy 
state; 

Where change of favorites made no change 
of laws, 

And senates heard before they judged a 
cause; 

How wouldst thou shake at Britain’s 
modish tribe, 

Dart the quick taunt and edge the piercing 
gibe ? 

Attentive truth and nature to descry, 

And pierce each scene with philosophic 1 
eye, 

To thee were solemn toys, or empty show, 

The robes of pleasure, and the veils of 1 
woe: 

All aid the farce, and all thy mirth main¬ 
tain, 

Whose joys are causeless, or whose griefs 
are vain. 

Such was the scorn that fill’d the sage’s 
mind, 

Renew’d at every glance on human 
kind; 

How just that scorn ere yet thy voice de¬ 
clare, 

Search every state, and canvass every 
prayer. 

Unnumber’d suppliants crowd Prefer- 1 
ment’s gate, 

Athirst for wealth, and burning to be 
great; 

Delusive Fortune hears th’ incessant call, 

They mount, they shine, evaporate and 
fall. 

On every stage the foes of peace attend, 

Hate dogs their flight, and insult mocks 
their end. 

Love ends with hope, the sinking states¬ 
man’s door 

Pours in the morning worshipper no 
more; 


For growing names the weekly scribbler 
lies, 

To growing wealth the dedicator flies; 

From every room descends the painted 
face 

That hung the bright palladium of the 
place, 

And, smoked in kitchens, or in auctions 
sold, 

To better features yields the frame of gold ; 

For now no more we trace in every line 

Heroic worth, benevolence divine ; 

The form distorted justifies the fall, 

And detestation rids th’ indignant wall. 

But will not Britain hear the last appeal, 

Sign her foes’ doom, or guard the favorite’s 
zeal ? 

Through Freedom’s sons no more remon¬ 
strance rings, 

Degrading nobles and controlling kings; 

Our supple tribes repress their patriot 
throats, 

And ask no questions but the price of 
votes; 

With weekly libels and septennial ale, 

Their wish is full to riot and to rail. 

In full-flown dignity see Wolsey stand, 

Law in his voice, and fortune in his hand; 

To him the church, the realm, their powers 
consign, 

Through him the rays of regal bounty 
shine, 

Turn’d by his nod the stream of honor 
flows, 

His smile alone security bestows; 

Still to new heights his restless wishes 
tower, 

Claim leads to claim, and power advances 
power; 

Till conquest unresisted ceased to please, 

And rights submitted left him none to 
seize; 

At length his sovereign frowns—the train 
of state 

Mark the keen glance, and watch the sign 
to hate. 

Where’er he turns, he meets a stranger’s 
eye, 

His suppliants scorn him, and his followers 








MORAL AND DIDACTIC POETRY. 


f>71 


Now drops at once the pride of awful 
state, 

The golden canopy, the glittering plate, 

The regal palace, the luxurious board, 

The liveried army, and the menial lord ; 

With age, with cares, with maladies op¬ 
press’d, 

He seeks the refuge of monastic rest. 

Grief aids disease, remember’d folly stings, 

And his last sighs reproach the faith of 
kings. 

Speak, thou whose thoughts at humble 
peace repine, 

Shall Wolsey’s wealth with Wolsey’s end 
be thine? 

Or liv’st thou now, with safer pride content, 

The wisest justice on the banks of Trent ? 

For why did Wolsey, near the steeps of 
fate, 

On weak foundations raise th’ enormous 
weight ? 

Why but to sink beneath misfortune’s blow, 

With louder ruin to the gulfs below? 

What gave great Villiers to the assassin’s 
knife, 

And fixed disease on Harley’s closing life? 

What murder’d Wentworth, and what 
exiled Hyde, 

By kings protected and to kings allied? 

What but their wish indulged in courts to 
shine 

And power too great to keep or to resign ? 

When first the college rolls receive his 
name, 

The young enthusiast quits his ease for 
fame; 

Resistless burns the fever of renown, 

Caught from the strong contagion of the 
gown ; 

O’er Bodley’s dome his futu're labors 
spread, 

And Bacon’s mansion trembles o’er his 
head. 

Are these thy views ? Proceed, illustrious 
youth, 

And Virtue guard thee to the throne of 
Truth ! 

Yet should thy soul indulge the generous 
heat 

Till captive Science yields her last retreat; 


Should Reason guide thee with her bright¬ 
est ray, 

And pour on misty Doubt resistless day ; 
Should no false kindness lure to loose de- 
light. 

Nor praise relax, nor difficulty fright; 
Should tempting Novelty thy cell refrain, 
And Sloth diffuse her opiate fumes in vain; 
Should Beauty blunt on fops her fatal dart, 
Nor claim the triumph of a letter’d heart; 
Should no disease thy torpid veins invade, 
Nor Melancholy’s phantoms haunt thy 
shade; 

Y^et hope not life from grief or danger 
free, 

Nor think the doom of man reversed for 
thee. 

Deign on the passing world to turn thine 
eyes, 

And pause a while from letters to be wise; 
There mark what ills the scholar’s life 
assail, 

Toil, envy, want, the patron, and the jail. 
See nations, slowly wise and meanly just, 
To buried merit raise the tardy bust. 

If dreams yet flatter, yet again attend, 
Hear Lydiat’s life and Galileo’s end. 

Nor deem, when Learning her last prize 
bestows, 

The glittering eminence exempt from foes; 
See, when the vulgar ’scapes, despised or 
awed, 

Rebellion’s vengeful talons seize on Laud. 
From meaner minds, though smaller fines 
content 

The plunder’d palace, or sequester’d rent, 
Mark’d out by dangerous parts, he meets 
the shock, 

And fatal Learning leads him to the block ; 
Around his tomb let Art and Genius weep, 
But hear his death, ye blockheads, hear 
and sleep. 

The festal blazes, the triumphal show, 
The ravish’d standard, and the captive foe, 
The senate’s thanks, tlye Gazette’s pompous 
tale, 

With force resistless o’er the brave prevail. 
Such bribes the rapid Greek o’er Asia 
whirl’d, 

For such the steady Romans shook the 
world; 









G72 


FIRESIDE ENCYCLOPAEDIA OF POETRY. 


For such iu distant lands the Britons 
shine, 

And stain with blood the Danube or the 
Rhine; 

This power has praise, that virtue scarce 
can warm 

Till Fame supplies the universal charm. 

Yet Reason frowns on War’s unequal game, 

Where wasted nations raise a single name; 

And mortgaged states their grandsire’s 
wreaths regret, 

From age to age in everlasting debt; 

Wreaths which at last the dear-bought 
right convey 

To rust on medals, or on stones decay. 

On what foundation stands the warrior’s 
pride, 

How just his hopes, let Swedish Charles 
decide: 

A frame of adamant, a soul of fire, 

No dangers fright him, and no labors tire; 

O’er love, o’er fear, extends his wide 
domain, 

Unconquer’d lord of pleasure and of 
pain; 

No joys to him pacific sceptres yield, 

War sounds the trump, he rushes to the 
field ; 

Behold surrounding kings their powers 
combine, 

And one capitulate, and one resign; 

Peace courts his hand, but spreads her 
charms in vain ; 

“Think nothing gain’d,” he cries, “till 
naught remain, 

On Moscow’s walls till Gothic standards 

fly, 

And all be mine beneath the polar sky!” 

The march begins in military state, 

And nations on his eye suspended wait ; 

Stern Famine guards the solitary coast, 

And Winter barricades the realms of 
F rost; 

He comes, nor want nor cold his course 
delay ;— 

Hide, blushing Glory, hide Pultowa’s day : 

The vanquish’d hero leaves his broken 
bands, 

And shows his miseries in distant lands ; 

Condemn’d a needy supplicant to wait, 

While ladies interpose, and slaves debate. 


But did not Chance at length her error 
mend ? 

Did no subverted empire mark his end? 

Did rival monarchs give the fatal wound ? 

Or hostile millions press him to the 
ground ? 

His fall was destined to a barren strand, 

A petty fortress, and a dubious hand ; 

He left the name, at which the world grew 
pale, 

To point a moral, or adorn a tale. 

All times their scenes of pompous woes 
afford, 

From Persia’s tyrant to Bavaria’s lord. 

In gay hostility and barbarous pride, 

With half mankind embattled at his side, 

Great Xerxes comes to seize the certain 

prey, 

And starves exhausted regions in his way; 

Attendant Flattery counts his myriads o’er, 

Till counted myriads soothe his pride no 
more; 

Fresh praise is tried till madness fires his 
mind, 

The waves he lashes, and enchains the 
wind, 

New powers are claim’d, new powers are 
still bestow’d, 

Till rude resistance lops the spreading 
god. 

The daring Greeks deride the martial 
show, 

And heap their valleys with the gaudy 
foe; 

Th’ insulted sea with humbler thought he 
gains, 

A single skiff to speed his flight remains ; 

Th’ encumber’d oar scarce leaves the 
dreaded coast 

Through purple billows and a floating host. 

The bold Bavarian, in a luckless hour, 

Tries the dread summits of Caesarean 
power, 

With unexpected legions bursts away, 

And sees defenceless realms receive his 
sway; 

Short sway! fair Austria spreads her 
mournful charms, 

The queen, the beauty, sets the world is 
arms; 







MORAL AND DIDACTIC POETRY. 


From hill to hill the beacon’s rousing 
blaze 

Spreads wide the hope of plunder and of 
jiraise; 

The fierce Croatian and the wild Hussar, 

With all the sons of ravage crowd the 
war; 

The baffled prince, in honor’s flattering 
bloom 

Of hasty greatness, finds the fatal doom, 

His foes’ derision, and his subjects’ blame, 

And steals to death from anguish and from 
shame. 

“ Enlarge my life with multitude of 
days !” 

In health, in sickness, thus the suppliant 
prays; 

Hides from himself his state, and shuns to 
know 

That life protracted is protracted woe. 

Time hovers o’er, impatient to destroy, 

And shuts up all the passages of joy. 

In vain their gifts the bounteous seasons 
pour, 

The fruit autumnal and the vernal flower ; 

With listless eyes the dotard views the 
store, 

He views, and wonders that they please no 
more; 

Now pall the tasteless meats, and joyless 
wines, 

And Luxury with sighs her slave resigns. 

Approach, ye minstrels, try the soothing 
strain, 

Diffuse the tuneful lenitives of pain : 

No sounds, alas! would touch th’ imper¬ 
vious ear, 

Though dancing mountains witness’d Or¬ 
pheus near: 

Nor lute nor lyre his feeble powers at¬ 
tend, 

Nor sweeter music of a virtuous friend; 

But everlasting dictates crowd his tongue, 

Perversely grave, or positively wrong. 

The still returning tale, and lingering 
jest 

Perplex the fawning niece and pamper’d 
guest, 

While growing hopes scarce awe the gath¬ 
ering sneer, 

And scarce a legacy can bribe to hear ; 

43 


673 


The watchful guests still hint the last 
offence ; 

The daughter’s petulance, the son’s ex¬ 
pense ; 

Improve his heady rage with treacherous 
skill, 

And mould his passions till they make his 
will. 

Unnumber’d maladies his joints invade, 
Lay siege to life, and press the dire 
blockade; 

But unextinguish’d Avarice still remains, 
And dreaded losses aggravate his pains ; 
He turns, with anxious heart and crippled 
hands, 

His bonds of debt, and mortgages of lands; 
Or views his coffers with suspicious eyes, 
Unlocks his gold, and counts it till he 
dies. 

But grant, the virtues of a temperate 
prime 

Bless with an age exempt from scorn or 
crime; 

An age that melts with unperceived decay, 
And glides in modest innocence away; 
Whose peaceful day Benevolence endears, 
Whose night congratulating Conscience 
cheers ; 

The general favorite as the general friend; 
Such age there is, and who shall wish its 
end? 

Yet even on this her load Misfortune 
flings, 

i To press the weary minutes’ flagging wings; 

New sorrow rises as the day returns, 

! A sister sickens, or a daughter mourns; 

Now kindred Merit fills the sable bier, 
j Now lacerated Friendship claims a tear; 
j Year chases year, decay pursues decay, 
Still drops some joy from withering life 
away; 

New forms arise, and different views en¬ 
gage, 

Superfluous lags the veteran on the stage, 
Till pitying Nature signs the last release, 
And bids afflicted worth retire to peace. 

But few there are whom hour's like these 
await, 

Who set unclouded in the gulfs of Fate. 






674 


FIRESIDE ENCYCLOPAEDIA OF POETRY. 


From Lydia’s monarch should the search 
descend, 

By Solon caution’d to regard his end, 

In life’s last scene what prodigies surprise, 

Fears of the brave, and follies of the wise: 

From Marlborough’s eyes the streams of 
dotage flow, 

And Swift expires a driveller and a show! 

The teeming mother, anxious for her 
race, 

Begs for each birth the fortune of a face; 

Yet Yane could tell what ills from beauty 
spring; 

And Sedley cursed the form that pleased a 
king. 

Ye nymphs of rosy lips and radiant eyes, 

Whom Pleasure keeps too busy to be wise; 

Whom joys with soft varieties invite, 

By day the frolic, and the dance by night; 

Who frown with vanity, who smile with 
art, 

And ask the latest fashion of the heart; 

What care, what rules, your heedless 
charms shall save, 

Each nymph your rival, and each youth 
your slave? 

Against your fame with fondness hate 
combines, 

The rival batters, and the lover mines: 

With distant voice neglected Virtue calls, 

Less heard and less, the faint remonstrance 
falls; 

Tired with contempt, she quits the slippery 
reign, 

And Pride and Prudence take her seat in 
vain. 

In crowd at once, where none the pass de¬ 
fend, 

The harmless freedom, and the private 
friend; 

The guardians yield, by force superior 
plied: 

To Interest, Prudence; and to Flattery, 
Pride. 

Here Beauty falls betray’d, despised, dis¬ 
tress’d, 

And hissing Infamy proclaims the rest 

Where then shall Hope and Fear their 
objects find ? 

Must dull suspense corrupt the stagnant 
mind? 


Must helpless man, in ignorance sedate, 
Roll darkling down the torrent of his fate? 
Must no dislike alarm, no wishes rise, 

No cries invoke the mercies of the skies? 



Which Heaven may hear, nor deem Re¬ 
ligion vain. 

Still raise for good the supplicating voice, 

But leave to Heaven the measure and the 
choice. 

Safe in His power whose eyes discern 
afar 

The secret ambush of a specious prayer, 

Implore His aid, in His decisions rest, 

Secure, whate’er He gives, He gives the 
best. 

Yet, when the sense of sacred presence 
fires, 

And strong devotion to the skies aspires, 

Pour forth thy fervors for a healthful 
mind, 

Obedient passions, and a will resign’d; 

For love, which scarce collective man can 
fill; 

For patience, sovereign o’er transmuted 
ill; 

For faith, that, panting for a happier 
seat, 

Counts death kind Nature’s signal of re¬ 
treat. 

These goods for man the laws of Heaven 
ordain; 

These goods He grants who grants the 
power to gain ; 

With these celestial Wisdom calms the 
mind, 

And makes the happiness she does not 
find. . 

Samuel Johnson. 


The Vanity of the World. 

False world, thou ly’st; thou canst not lend 
The least delight: 

Thy favors cannot gain a friend, 

They are so slight: 

Thy morning pleasures make an end 
To please at night: 

Poor are the wants that thou supply’st, 
And yet thou vaunt’st, and yet thou vy’st 
With heaven ; fond earth, thou boast’st; 
false world, thou ly’st. 












MORAL AND DIDACTIC POETRY. 


67 5 


Thy babbling tongue tells golden tales 
Of endless treasure; 

Thy bounty oilers easy sales 
Of lasting pleasure; 

Thou ask’st the conscience what she ails, 
And swear’st to ease her ; 

There’s none can want where thou sup- 
ply’st: 

There’s none can give where thou deny’st. 
Alas! fond world, thou boast’st; false world, 
thou ly’st. 

What well-advisfed ear regards 
What earth can say ? 

Thy words are gold, but thy rewards 
Are painted clay: 

Thy cunning can but pack the cards, 

Thou canst not play : 

Thy game at weakest, still thou vy’st; 

If seen, and then revy’d, deny’st: 

Thou art not what thou seem’st; false 
world, thou ly’st. 

Thy tinsel bosom seems a mint 
Of new-coin’d treasure: 

A paradise, that has no stint, 

No change, no measure; 

A painted cask, but nothing in’t, 

Nor wealth, nor pleasure : 

Vain earth ! that falsely thus comply’st 
With man ; vain man, that thou rely’st 
On earth; vain man, thou doat’st; vain 
earth, thou ly’st. 

What mean dull souls, in this high meas¬ 
ure, 

To haberdash 

In earth’s base wares, whose greatest treas¬ 
ure 

Is dross and trash; 

The height of whose enchanting pleasure 
Is but a flash ? 

Are these the goods that thou supply’st 
Us mortals with ? Are these the high’st? 
Can these bring cordial peace? False 
world, thou ly’st. 

Francis Quarles. 

' The Lie. 

Go, soul, the body’s guest, 

Upon a thankless arrant; 

Fear not to touch the best, 

The truth shall be thy warrant: 


Go, since I needs must die, 

And give the world the lie. 

Go, tell the court it glows 
And shines like rotten wood; 

Go, tell the Church it shows 
What’s good, and doth no good. 

If Church and court reply, 
Then give them both the lie. 

Tell potentates they live 
Acting by others’ action, 

Not loved unless they give, 

Not strong but by a faction. 

If potentates reply, 

Give potentates the lie. 

Tell men of high condition 
That rule affairs of state, 

Their purpose is ambition, 

Their practice only hate. 

And if they once reply, 

Then give them all the lie. 

Tell them that brave it most. 

They beg for more by spending, 

Who, in their greatest cost, 

Seek nothing but commending. 
And if they make reply, 

Then give them all the lie. 

Tell zeal it lacks devotion, 

Tell love it is but lust, 

Tell time it is but motion, 

Tell flesh it is but dust; 

And wish them not reply, 

For thou must give the lie. 

Tell age it daily wasteth, 

Tell honor how it alters, 

Tell beauty how she blasteth, 

Tell favor how it falters. 

And as they shall reply, 

Give every one the lie. 

Tell wit how* much it wrangles 
In tickle points of niceness; 

Tell wisdom she entangles 
Herself in over-wiseness. 

And when they do reply, 
Straight give them both the lie. 

Tell physic of her boldness, 

Tell skill it is pretension, 

Tell charity of coldness, 

Tell law it is contention. 







FIRESIDE ENCYCLOPAEDIA OF POETRY. 


G7G 


And as they do reply, 

So give them still the lie. 

Tell fortune of her blindness, 

Tell Nature of decay, 

Tell friendship of unkindness, 

Tell justice of delay. 

And if they will reply, 

Then give them all the lie. 

Tell arts they have no soundness, 
But vary by esteeming ; 

Tell schools they want profoundness, 
And stand too much on seeming. 
If arts and schools reply, 

Give arts and schools the lie. 

Tell faith it’s fled the city; 

Tell how the country erreth ; 

Tell, manhood shakes off pity; 

Tell, virtue least preferreth. 

And if they do reply, 

Spare not to give the lie. 

So when thou hast, as I 

Commanded thee, done blabbing, 
Although to give the lie 
Deserves no less than stabbing, 
Yet, stab at thee who will, 

No stab the soul can kill. 

Sir Walter Raleigh. 

ARMSTRONG'S GOOD-NIGHT. 

This night is my departing night, 

For here nae langer must d stay; 
There’s neither friend nor foe o’ mine 
But wishes me away. 

What I have done thro’ lack o’ wit 
I never, never can recall. 

I hope ye’re a’ my friends as yet: 
Good-night! and joy be wi’ you all! 

Author Unknown. 


Melancholia. 

Hence, all you vain delights, 

As short as are the nights 
Wherein you spend your folly: 
There’s naught in this life sweet 
If man were wise to see’t, 

But only Melancholy, 

0 sweetest Melancholy! 


Welcome, folded arms and fixed eyes, 

A sigh that piercing mortifies, 

A look that’s fasten’d to the ground, 

A tongue chain’d up without a sound ' 
Fountain-heads and pathless groves, 
Places which pale passion loves ! 
Moonlight walks, when all the fowls 
Are warmly housed save bats and owls! 
A midnight bell, a parting groan! 

These are the sounds we feed upon; 

Then stretch our bones in a still gloomy 
valley; 

Nothing’s so dainty sweet as lovely Melan¬ 
choly. 

John ^etcher. 

Sonnet. 

A good that never satisfies the mind, 

A beauty fading like the April showers, 

A sweet with floods of gall that runs com' 
bined, 

A pleasure passing ere in thought made 
ours, 

A honor that more fickle is than wind, 

A glory at opinion’s frown that lowers, 

A treasury which bankrupt time de¬ 
vours, 

A knowledge than grave ignorance more 
blind, 

A vain delight our equals to command, 

A style of greatness in effect a dream, 

A swelling thought of holding sea and 
land, 

A servile lot deck’d with a pompous name: 
Are the strange ends we toil for here 
below 

Till wisest death make us our errors 
know. 

William Drummond. 

There'S not a Joy the World 
can Give. 

There’s not a joy the world can give like 
that it takes away 

When the glow of early thought declines 
in feeling’s dull decay; 

’Tis not on youth’s smooth cheek the blush 
alone which fades so fast, 

But the tender bloom of heart is gone, ere 
youth itself be past. 




MORAL AND DIDACTIC POETRY. 


677 


Then the few whose spirits float above the 
wreck of happiness 

Are driven o’er the shoals of guilt or ocean 
- of excess: 

The magnet of their course is gone, or only 
points in vain 

The shore to which their shiver’d sail shall 
never stretch again. 

Then the mortal coldness of the soul like 
death itself conies down; 

It cannot feel for others’ woes, it dare not 
dream its own; 

That heavy chill has frozen o’er the foun¬ 
tain of our tears, 

And though the eye may sparkle still, ’tis 
where the ice appears. 

Though wit may flash from fluent lips, and 
mirth distract the breast, 

Through midnight hours that yield no more 
their former hope of rest; 

’Tis but as ivy-leaves around the ruin’d 
turret wreathe, 

All green and wildly fresh without, but 
worn and gray beneath. 

Oh could I feel as I have felt, or be what I 
have been, 

Or weep as I could once have wept o’er 
many a vanish’d scene,— 

As springs in deserts found seem sweet, all 
brackish though they be, 

So, midst the wither’d waste of life, those 
tears would flow to me! 

Lord Byron. 

Good-Bye. 

Good-bye, proud world! I’m going home; 

Thou art not my friend, and I’m not thine. 
Long through thy weary crowds I roam ; 

A river-ark on the ocean brine, 

Long I’ve been toss’d like the driven foam, 
But now, proud world, I’m going home. 

Good-bye to flattery’s fawning face, 

To grandeur, with his wise grimace, 

To upstart wealth’s averted eye, 

To supple office, low and high, 

To crowded halls, to court and street, 

To frozen hearts and hasting feet, 

To those who go and those who come,— 
Good-bye, proud world ! I’m going home. 


I I am going to my own hearthstone, 
j Bosom’d in yon green hills alone— 

A secret nook in a pleasant land, 

Whose groves the frolic fairies plann’d, 
Where arches green, the livelong day, 
Echo the blackbird’s roundelay, 

And vulgar feet have never trod,— 

A spot that is sacred to thought and God. 

Oh, when I am safe in my sylvan home, 

I tread on the pride of Greece and Rome, 

| And when I am stretch’d beneath the 
pines, 

Where the evening star so holy shines, 

I laugh at the lore and pride of man, 

At the sophist schools, and the learned 
clan; 

For what are they all, in their high conceit. 
When man in the bush with God may 
meet? 

Ralph Waldo Emerson. 


No Age Content with his Owa 
Esta TE. 

Laid in my quiet bed, 

In study as I were, 

I saw within my troubled head 
A heap of thoughts appear. 

And every thought did show 
So lively in mine eyes, 

That now I sigh’d, and then I smiled, 
As cause of thought did rise. 

I saw the little boy 
In thought, how oft that he 
Did wish of God to ’scape the rod, 

A tall young man to be. 

The young man eke that feels 
His bones with pains oppress’d, 

How he would be a rich old man, 

To live and lie at rest. 

The rich old man that sees 
His end draw on so sore, 

How he would be a boy again, 

To live so much the more. 

Whereat full oft I smiled, 

To see how all these three, 

From boy to man, from man to boy, 
Would chop and change degree. 






678 


FIRESIDE ENCYCLOPAEDIA OF POETRY. 


And musing thus, I think, 

The case is very strange, 

That man from wealth, to live in woe, 
Doth ever seek to change. 

Thus thoughtful as I lay, 

I saw my wither’d skin, 

How it doth show my dented chews, 
The flesh was worn so thin ; 

And eke my toothless chaps, 

The gates of my right way, 

That opes and shuts as I do speak, 

Do thus unto me say: 

“ Thy white and hoarish hairs, 

The messengers of age, 

That show, like lines of true belief, 
That this life doth assuage; 

“ Bid thee lay hand, and feel 
Them hanging on thy chin. 

The which do write two ages past, 

The third now coming in. 

“ Hang up, therefore, the bit 
Of thy young wanton time, 

And thou that therein beaten art, 

The happiest life define.” 

Whereat I sigh’d, and said, 

“Farewell my wonted joy! 

Truss up thy pack, and trudge from me, 
To every little boy, 

“ And tell them thus from me, 

Their time most happy is, 

If to their time they reason had, 

To know the truth of this.” 

Henry Howard 

(Earl of Surrey). 


Different Minds. 

Some murmur when their sky is clear 
And wholly bright to view, 

If one small speck of dark appear 
In their great heaven of blue; 

And some with thankful love are fill’d 
If but one streak of light, 

One ray of God’s good mercy, gild 
The darkness of their night. 

In palaces are hearts that ask, 

In discontent and pride, 


Why life is such a dreary task, 

And all good things denied ; 

And hearts in poorest huts admire 
How Love has in their aid 
(Love that not ever seems to tire) 

Such rich provision made. 

Richard Chenevix Trench. 

A Name in the Sand. 

Alone I walked the ocean strand, 

A pearly shell was in my hand; 

I stooped, and wrote upon the sand 
My name, the year, the day. 

As onward from the spot I passed, 

One lingering look behind I cast,— 

A wave came rolling high and fast, 

And washed my lines away. 

And so, methought, ’twill shortly be 
With every mark on earth from me; 

A wave of dark oblivion’s sea 
Will sweep across the place 
Where I have trod the sandy shore 
Of time, and been, to be no more; 

Of me, my frame, the name I bore, 

To leave no track nor trace; 

And yet, with Him who counts the sands, 
And holds the waters in his hands, 

I know a lasting record stands 
Inscribed against my name, 

Of all this mortal part has wrought, 

Of all this thinking soul has thought, 

And from these fleeting moments caught 
For glory or for shame ! 

Hannah Flagg Gould. 

On a Contented Mind. 

When all is done and said, 

In the end this shall you find: 

He most of all doth bathe in bliss 
That hath a quiet mind; 

And, clear from worldly cares, 

To deem can be content 
The sweetest time in all his life 
In thinking to be spent. 

The body subject is 

To fickle Fortune’s power, 

And to a million of mishaps 
Is casual every hour; 




MORAL AND DIDACTIC POETRY. 


670 


And Death in time doth change 
It to a clod of clay, 

When as the mind, which is divine, 
Runs never to decay. 

Companion none is like 
Unto the mind alone, 

For many have been harm’d by 
speech, 

Through thinking, few or none. 

Fear oftentimes restraineth words, 

Rut makes not thoughts to cease, 

And he speaks best that hath the skill 
When for to hold his peace. 

Our wealth leaves us at death, 

Our kinsmen at the grave, 

But virtues of the mind unto 
The heavens with us we have; 
Wherefore, for virtue’s sake, 

I can be w T ell content 
The sweetest time of all my life 
To deem in thinking spent. 

Thomas, Lord Vaux. 


A Hymn to Contentment. 

Lovely, lasting peace of mind ! 
Sweet delight of human kind ! 
Heavenly born, and bred on high, 

To crown the favorites of the sky 
With more of happiness below, 

Than victors in a triumph know ! 
Whither, oh whither art thou fled, 

To lay thy meek, contented head ? 
What happy region dost thou please 
To make the seat of calms and ease ? 

Ambition searches all its sphere 
Of pomp and state, to meet thee there. 
Increasing Avarice would find 
Thy presence in its gold enshrined. 

The bold adventurer ploughs his way, 
Through rocks amidst the foaming sea, 
To gain thy love ; and then perceives 
Thou wert not in the rocks and waves. 
The silent heart, which grief assails, 
Treads soft and lonesome o’er the vales, 
See daisies open, rivers run, 

And seeks (as I have vainly done) 
Amusing thought; but learns to know 
That Solitude’s the nurse of woe. 


No real happiness is found 
In trailing purple o’er the ground : 

Or in a soul exalted high, 

To range the circuit of the sky, 

Converse with stars above, and know 
All Nature in its forms below ; 

The rest it seeks, in seeking dies, 

And doubts at last for knowledge rise. 

Lovely, lasting peace, appear ! 

This world itself, if thou art here, 

Is once again with Eden blest, 

And man contains it in his breast. 

’Twas thus, as under shade I stood, 

I sung my wishes to the wood, 

And, lost in thought, no more perceived 
The branches whisper as they waved : 

It seem’d as all the quiet place 
Confess’d the presence of the Grace. 
When thus she spoke—Go rule thy will, 
Bid thy wild passions all be still, 

Know God—and bring thy heart to know 
The joys which from religion flow: 

Then every Grace shall prove its guest, 
And I’ll be there to crown the rest. 

Oh ! by yonder mossy seat, 

In my hours of sweet retreat, 

Might I thus my soul employ 
With sense of gratitude and joy: 

Raised as ancient prophets w T ere, 

In heavenly vision, praise and prayer ; 
Pleasing all men, hurting none, 

Pleased and bless’d with God alone : 

Then while the gardens take my sight, 
With all the colors of delight ; 

While silver waters glide along, 

To please my ear, and court my song; 

I’ll lift my voice, and tune my string, 

And Thee, great Source of Nature, sing. 

The sun that walks his airy way, 

To light the world, and give the day ; 

The moon that shines with borrow’d light; 
The stars that gild the gloomy night; 

The seas that roll unnutnber’d waves; 

The w r ood that spreads its shady 'leaves ; 
The field wdiose ears conceal the grain, 
The yellow treasure of the plain ; 

All of these, and all I see, 

Should be sung, and sung by me : 

They speak their Maker as they can, 

But want and ask the tongue of man. 








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FIRESIDE ENCYCLOPAEDIA OF POETRY. 


Go search among your idle dreams, 
Your busy or your vain extremes ; 

And find a life of equal bliss, 

Or own the next begun in this. 

Thomas Parnell. 

A Contented Mind. 

I weigh not fortune’s frown or smile; 

I joy not much in earthly joys; 

I seek not state, I reck not style; 

I am not fond of fancy’s toys: 

I rest so pleased with what I have 
I wish no more, no more I crave. 

I quake not at the thunder’s crack ; 

I tremble not at noise of war; 

I swound not at the news of wrack; 

I shrink not at a blazing star; 

I fear not loss, I hope not gain, 

I envy none, I none disdain. 

I see ambition never pleased; 

I see some Tantals starved in store; 
I see gold’s dropsy seldom eased ; 

I see even Midas gape for more : 

I neither want, nor yet abound— 
Enough’s a feast, content is crown’d. 

I feign not friendship where I hate; 

I fawn not on the great (in show); 

I prize, I praise a mean estate— 
Neither too lofty nor too low: 

This, this is all my choice, my cheer— 
A mind content, a conscience clear. 

Joshua Sylvester. 


Sweet Content. 

Art thou poor, yet hast thou golden slum¬ 
bers? 

O sweet content! 

Art thou rich, yet is thy mind perplexed? 

O punishment! 

Dost thou laugh to see how fools are 
vexfed 

To add to golden numbers, golden num¬ 
bers? 

0 sweet content! O sweet, O sweet con¬ 
tent ! 

Work apace, apace, apace, apace; 

Honest labor bears a lovely face; 

Then hey nonny nonny, hey nonny nonny 1 


Canst drink the waters of the crisped 
spring ? 

0 sweet content! 

Swimm’st thou in wealth, yet sink’st in 
thine own tears? 

0 punishment! 

Then he that patiently want’s burden 
bears 

No burden bears, but is a king, a king! 

O sweet content! 0 sweet, 0 sweet con¬ 
tent ! 

Work apace, apace, apace, apace; 

Honest labor bears a lovely face; 

Then hey nonny nonny, hey nonny nonny! 

Thomas Dekker. 

Content. 

Sweet are the thoughts that savor of con¬ 
tent— 

The quiet mind is richer than a crown ; 

Sweet are the nights in careless slumber 
spent— 

The poor estate scorns fortune’s angry 
frown: 

Such sweet content, such minds, such sleep, 
such bliss, 

Beggars enjoy, when princes oft do miss. 

The homely house that harbors quiet rest, 

The cottage that affords no pride or 
care, 

The mean that ’grees with country music 
best, 

The sweet consort of mirth and music’s 
fare, 

Obscured life sets down a type of bliss: 

A mind content both crown and kingdom 
is. 

Robert Greene. 

Careless Content. 

I AM content, I do not care, 

Wag as it will the world for me; 

When fuss and fret was all my fare, 

It got no ground as I could see: 

So when away my caring went, 

I counted cost, and was content. 

With more of thanks and less of thought, 

I strive to make my matters meet; 




MORAL AND DIDACTIC POETRY. 


G81 


To seek what ancient sages sought, 

Physic and food in sour and sweet: 

To take what passes in good part, 

And keep the hiccups from the heart. 

With good and gentle-humor’d hearts 
I choose to chat where’er I come, 
Whate’er the subject be that starts; 

But if I get among the glum, 

I hold my tongue to tell the truth, 

And keep my breath to cool my broth. 

For chance or change of peace or pain, 
For Fortune’s favor or her frown, 

For lack or glut, for loss or gain, 

I never dodge nor up nor down ; 

But swing what way the ship shall swim, 
Or tack about with equal trim. 

I suit not where I shall not speed, 

Nor trace the turn of every tide; 

If simple sense will not succeed, 

I make no bustling, but abide ; 

For shining wealth or scaring woe, 

I force no friend, I fear no foe. 

Of ups and downs, of ins and outs, 

Of they’re i’ the wrong, and w r e’re i’ 
the right, 

I shun the rancors and the routs; 

And wishing well to every wight, 
Whatever turn the matter takes, 

I deem it all but ducks and drakes. 

With whom I feast I do not fawn, 

Nor if the folks should flout me, faint; 
If wonted welcome be withdrawn, 

I cook no kind of a complaint: 

With none disposed to disagree, 

But like them best who best like me. 

Not that I rate myself the rule 
How all my betters should behave ; 

But fame shall find me no man’s fool, 

Nor to a set of men a slave: 

I love a friendship free and frank, 

And hate to hang upon a hank. 

Fond of a true and trusty tie, 

I never loose where’er I link; 

Though if a business budges by, 

I talk thereon just as I think ; 

My word, my w'ork, my heart, my hand, 
Still on a side together stand. 


If names or notions make a noise, 
Whatever hap the question hath, 

The point impartially I poise, 

And read or write, but without wrath; 
For should I burn, or break my brains, 
Pray, who will pay me for my pains ? 

I love my neighbor as myself, 

Myself like him too, by his leave; 
Nor to his pleasure, power, or pelf 
Came I to crouch, as I conceive: 
Dame Nature doubtless has design’d 
A man the monarch of his mind. 

Now taste and try this temper, sirs; 

Mood it and brood it in your breast; 
Or if ye ween, for worldly stirs, 

That man does right to mar his rest, 
Let me be deft, and debonair, 

I am content, I do not care. 

John Byrom. 


Character of a Happy Life. 

How happy is he born and taught 
That serveth not another’s will; 

Whose armor is his honest thought 
And simple truth his utmost skill l 

Whose passions not his masters are, 
Whose soul is still prepared for death, 

Untied unto the world by care 
Of public fame or private breath ; 

Who envies none that chance doth raise 
Nor vice; hath ever understood 

How deepest wounds are given by praise; 
Nor rules of state, but rules of good: 

Who hath his life from rumors freed, 
Whose conscience is his strong retreat; 

Whose state can neither flatterers feed, 
Nor ruin make oppressors great; 

Who God doth late and early pray 
More of His grace than gifts to lend; 

And entertains the harmless day 
With a religious book or friend; 

—This man is freed from servile bands 
Of hope to rise, or fear to fall; 

Lord of himself, though not of lands : 
And having nothing, yet hath all. 

Sir Henry Wotton 





682 


FIRESIDE ENCYCLOPAEDIA OF POETRY. 


The Pulley. 

When God at first made Man, 

Having a glass of blessings standing by; 

Let us (said He) pour on him all we can : 
Let the world’s riches, which dispersed lie, 
Contract into a span. 

So strength first made a way ; 

Then beauty flow’d, then wisdom, honor, 
pleasure: 

When almost all was out, God made a 
stay, 

Perceiving that alone of all His treasure, 
Rest in the bottom lay. 

For if I should (said He) 

Bestow this jewel also on My creature, 

He would adore My gifts instead of Me, 
And rest in Nature, not the God of Nature: 
So both should losers be. 

Yet let him keep the rest, 

But keep them with repining restlessness: 

Let him be rich and weary, that at least, 
If goodness lead him not, yet weariness 
May toss him to My breast. 

George Herbert. 

The Kingdom of God. 

I say to thee, do thou repeat 
To the first man thou mayest meet, 

In lane, highway, or open street,— 

That he, and we, and all men move 
Under a canopy of Love, 

As broad as the blue sky above: 

That doubt and trouble, fear and pain, 
And anguish, all are shadows vain ; 

That death itself shall not remain : 

That weary deserts we may tread, 

A dreary labyrinth may thread, 

Through dark ways underground be led; 

Yet, if we will one Guide obey, 

The dreariest path, the darkest way, 
Shall issue out in heavenly day ; 

And we, on divers shores now cast, 

Shall meet, our perilous voyage past, 

All in our Father’s home at last. 


And ere thou leave him, say thou this: 
Yet one word more: They only miss 
The winning of that perfect bliss 

Who will not count it true that Love, 
Blessing, not cursing, rules above, 

And that in it we live and move. 

And one thing further make him know 
That to believe these things are so, 

This firm faith never to forego,— 

Despite of all which seems at strife 
With blessing, and with curses rife,— 
That this is blessing, this is life. 

Richard Chenevix Trench. 


Virtue. 

Sweet day, so cool, so calm, so bright, 
The bridal of the earth and sky, 

The dew shall weep thy fall to-night; 

For thou must die. 

Sweet rose, whose hue, angry and brave. 
Bids the rash gazer wipe his eye, 

Thy root is ever in its grave— 

And thou must die. 

Sweet spring, full of sweet days and 
roses, 

A box where sweets compacted lie, 

My music shows ye have your closes, 

And all must die. 

Only a sweet and virtuous soul, 

Like season’d timber, never gives ; 

But, though the whole world turn to coal, 
Then chiefly lives. 

George Herbert. 


The Good, Great man. 

How seldom, friend, a good great man in¬ 
herits 

Honor and wealth, with all his worth 
and pains! 

It seems a story from the. world of spirits 

When any man obtains that which he 
merits, 

Or any merits that which he obtains. 





MORAL AND DIDACTIC POETRY. 


683 


For sliame, my friend! renounce this idle 
strain! 

What wouldst thou have a good great man 
obtain ? 

Wealth, title, dignity, a golden chain, 

Or heap of corses which his sword hath 
slain ? 

Goodness and greatness are not means, but 
ends. 

Hath he not always treasures, always 
friends, 

The great good man ? Three treasures,— 
love, and light, 

And calm thoughts, equable as infant’s 
breath; 

And three fast friends, more sure than day 
or night,— 

Himself, his Maker, and the angel 
Death. 

Samuel Taylok Coleridge. 


Sonnet to Hope. 

Oh, ever skill’d to wear the form we love! 

To bid the shapes of fear and grief de¬ 
part, 

Come, gentle Hope! with one gay smile 
remove 

The lasting sadness of an aching heart. 

Thy voice, benign enchantress, let me 
hear; 

Say that for me some pleasures yet shall 
bloom, 

That Fancy’s radiance, Friendship’s pre¬ 
cious tear, 

Shall soften, or shall chase, misfortune’s 
gloom. 

But come not glowing in the dazzling 
ray 

Which once with dear illusions charm’d 
my eye, 

Oh, strew no more, sweet flatterer, on my 
way 

The flowers I fondly thought too bright 
to die; 

Visions less fair will soothe my pensive 
breast, 

That asks not happiness, but longs for 
rest! 

Helen Maria Williams. 


The Problem. 

I like a church, I like a cowl, 

I love a prophet of the soul, 

And on my heart monastic aisles 
Fall like sweet strains or pensive smiles, 
Yet not for all his faith can see 
Would I that cowled churchman be. 

Why should the vest on him allure, 
Which I could not on me endure ? 

Not from a vain or shallow thought 
His awful Jove young Phidias brought; 
Never from lips of cunning fell 
The thrilling Delphic oracle ; 

Out from the heart of Nature roll’d 
The burdens of the Bible old ; 

The litanies of nations came, 

Like the volcano’s tongue of flame, 

Up from the burning core below,— 

The canticles of love and woe. 

The hand that rounded Peter’s dome, 

And groin’d the aisles of Christian Rome, 
Wrought in a sad sincerity. 

Himself from God he could not free ; 

He builded better than he knew ; 

The conscious stone to beauty grew. 

Know’st thou what wove yon wood-bird's 
nest 

Of leaves, and feathers from her breast ? 
Or how the fish outbuilt her shell, 
Painting with morn each annual cell? 

Or how the sacred pine tree adds 
To her old leaves new myriads ? 

Such and so grew these holy piles, 

Whilst love and terror laid the tiles. 

Earth proudly wears the Parthenon 
As the best gem upon her zone ; 

And Morning opes with haste her lids 
To gaze upon the Pyramids ; 

O’er England’s abbeys bends the sky 
As on its friends with kindred eye ; 

For, out of Thought’s interior sphere 
These wonders rose to upper air, 

And Nature gladly gave them place, 
Adopted them into her race, 

And granted them an equal date 
With Andes and with Ararat. 

These temples grew as grows the grass; 
Art might obey, but not surpass. 





684 


FIRESIDE ENCYCLOPAEDIA OF POETRY. 


The passive Master lent his hand 
To the vast Soul that o’er him plann’d, 
And the same power that rear’d the shrine, 
Bestrode the tribes that knelt within. 

Ever the fiery Pentecost 
Girds with one flame the countless host, 
Trances the heart through chanting choirs, 
And through the priest the mind inspires. 

The word unto the prophet spoken 
Was writ on tables yet unbroken ; 

The word by seers or sibyls told, 

In groves of oak or fanes of gold, 

Still floats upon the morning wind, 

Still whispers to the willing mind. 

One accent of the Holy Ghost 
The heedless world hath never lost. 

I know what say the Fathers wise,— 

The Book itself before me lies,— 

Old Chrysostom, best Augustine, 

And be who blent both in his line, 

The younger Golden Lips or mines, 

Taylor, the Shakespeare of divines. 

His words are music in my ear, 

I see his cowled portrait dear, 

A ltd yet, for all his faith could see, 

I would not the good bishop be. 

Ralph Waldo Emerson. 

Abou Ben Ad hem. 

Abou Ben Adhem (may his tribe in¬ 
crease !) 

Awoke one night from a deep dream of 
peace. 

And saw within the moonlight in his room, 
Making it rich, and like a lily in bloom, 
An angel, writing in a book of gold ; 
Exceeding peace had made Ben Adhem 
bold, 

And to the presence in the room he said, 

“ What writest thou ?” the vision raised 
its head, 

And with a look made of all sweet accord, 
Answer’d, “ The names of those who love 
the Lord.” 

“And is mine one?” said Abou. “Nay, 
not so,” 

Replied the angel. Abou spoke more low, 
But cheerly still; and said, “ I pray thee, 
then, 

Write me as one that loves his fellow- 
men.” 


The angel wrote and vanish’d. The 
next night 

It came again, with a great wakening light, 
And show’d the names whom love of God 
had bless’d, 

And, lo 1 Ben Adhem’s name led all the rest. 

Leigh Hunt. 

Ode to Duty. 

Stern Daughter of the Voice of God! 

O Duty ! if that name thou love 
Who art a Light to guide, a Rod 
To check the erring, and reprove; 

Thou, who art victory and law 
When empty terrors overawe ; 

From vain temptations dost set free ; 

And calm’st the weary strife of frail hu¬ 
manity ! 

There are who ask not if thine eye 
Be on them ; who, in love and truth, 
Where no misgiving is, rely 

Upon the genial sense of youth : 

Glad hearts ! without reproach or blot; 
Who do thy work, and know it not: 

Long may the kindly impulse last! 

But thou, if they should totter, teach 
them to stand fast! 

Serene will be our days and bright, 

And happy will our nature be, 

When love is an unerring light, 

And joy its own security. 

And they a blissful course may hold 
Even now, who, not unwisely bold, 

Live in the spirit of this creed ; 

Yet find that other strength, according to 
their need. 

I, loving freedom, and untried, 

No sport of every random gust, 

Yet being to myself a guide, 

Too blindly have reposed my trust: 

And oft, when in my heart was heard 
Thy timely mandate, I deferr’d 
The task, in smoother walks to stray ; 

But thee I now would serve more strictly, 
if I may. 

Through no disturbance of my soul, 

Or strong compunction in me wrought, 

I supplicate for thy control; 

But in the quietness of thought: 







MORAL AND DIDACTIC POETRY. 


G85 


Me this uncharter’d freedom tires; 

I feel the weight of chance desires: 

My hopes no more must change their name, 
I long for a repose that ever is the same. 

Stern Lawgiver ! yet thou dost wear 
The Godhead’s most benignant grace ; 
Nor know we anything so fair 
As is the smile upon thy face : 

Flowers laugh before thee on their beds ; 
And Fragrance in thy footing treads ; 
Thou dost preserve the Stars from w r rong ; 
And the most ancient Heavens, through 
thee, are fresh and strong. 

To humbler functions, awful Power ! 

I call thee : I myself commend 
Unto thy guidance from this hour ; 

Oh, let my weakness have an end ! 

Give unto me, made lowly wise, 

The spirit of self-sacrifice ; 

The confidence of reason give ; 

And in the light of truth thy Bondman 
let me live! 

William Wordsworth. 


The Touchstone. 

A MAN there came, whence none could 
tell, 

Bearing a touchstone in his hand; 

And tested all things in the land 
By its unerring spell. 

Quick birth of transmutation smote 
The fair to foul, the foul to fair; 

Purple nor ermine did he spare, 

Nor scorn the dusty coat. 

Of heirloom jew r els, prized so much, 

Were many changed to chips and 
clods, 

And even statues of the gods 
Crumbled beneath its touch. 

Then angrily the people cried, 

“The loss outweighs the profit far; 

Our goods suffice us as they are; 

We will not have them tried.” 

And since they could not so avail 
To check his unrelenting quest, 

They seized him, saying, “ Let him test, 
How real is our jail!” 


But, though they slew him with the 
sword, 

And in a fire his touchstone burn’d, 

Its doings could not be o’erturn’d, 

Its undoings restored. 

And when, to stop all future harm, 

They strew’d its ashes on the breeze; 
They little guess’d each grain of these 
Convey’d the perfect charm. 

William Allingham. 


The Sours Defiance. 

I said to Sorrow r ’s awful storm, 

That beat against my breast, 

Rage on—thou may’st destroy this form, 
And lay it low at rest; 

But still the spirit that now' brooks 
Thy tempest, raging high, 

Undaunted on its fury looks 
With steadfast eye. 

I 

I said to Penury’s meagre train, 

Come on—your threats I brave; 

My last poor life-drop you may drain, 
And crush me to the grave; 

Yet still the spirit that endures 
Shall mock your force the while, 

And meet each cold, cold grasp of yours 
With bitter smile. 

I said to cold Neglect and Scorn, 

Pass on—I heed you not; 

Ye may pursue me till my form 
And being are forgot; 

Yet still the spirit, which you see 
Undaunted by your wiles, 

Draws from its own nobility 
Its high-born smiles. 

I said to Friendship’s menaced blow, 
Strike deep—my heart shall bear ; 

Thou canst but add one bitter woe 
To those already there; 

Yet still the spirit that sustains 
This last severe distress 

Shall smile upon its keenest pains, 

And scorn redress. 







68G 


FIRESIDE ENCYCLOPAEDIA OF POETRY. 


I said to Death’s uplifted dart, 

Aim sure—oh, why delay ? 

Thou wilt not find a fearful heart— 
A weak, reluctant prey ; 

For still the spirit, firm and free, 
Unruffled by this last dismay, 
Wrapt in its own eternity, 

Shall pass away. 

Lavinia Stoddard. 


Without Him. 

[“ And I thought I said in my dream: ‘ What a 

very long time you have been away.’ ”] 

To live the sorrow down, and try to be 
Familiar with the strange new sense of 
light: 

To learn once more to laugh, and even see 
Some half-drawn plans—nor quiver at 
the sight: 

To envy little children in the lanes 

Their fathers’ hands—the wealth of love 
bestow’d; 

To know that only memory remains 

With ill-trimmed lamps to light the 
roughen'd road. 

To watch the hands upon the clock creep 
round 

Towards his hour with cautious, steady 
strength: 

Like pilgrim feet that tread on holy ground 
Toil on in patience,—till the shrine at 
length 

Is reach’d, and pass’d. To see the papers 
wait; 

The dog sleep soundly at the open door, 

And then to know his touch upon the gate 
Will never charm the twilight any more. 

To watch the snowdrops fade, the roses 
droop 

Their heavy heads upon the mossy wall: 

To see the seats beneath the limes, and 
stoop 

With choking throat to hide the tears 
that fall. 

To see the blooms he set grow up apace, 
The large blue pansies that be tended so, 

The wide, white blossoms in their snowy 
grace, 

And hollyhocks with pink puffs all ablow. 


To stand within the room where life went 
out 

With breath of roses, and with perfect 
peace:— 

To feel again the stupor, and the doubt, 

To hear the alter’d voice moan on, and 
cease:— 

To plead for just one conscious word, one 
smile, 

One feeble touch to soften down the pain: 

To watch the sun go out. The shadows file 

Across the room,—and then grow’ calm 
again. 

To carry through the years the burning 
thought 

Of helpful actions that w r ere slowly 
done; 

To speak in dreams what echoes seldom 
caught; 

To have the blessing back that Death 
has won:— 

To dream of dead days with their old 
repose; 

With clearer sight correcting each mis¬ 
take ; 

And then to see the gates of life unclose, 

The fine face vanish—and the morning 
break. 

Edith Rutter. 


The Hermit. 

Far in a wild, unknown to public view’, 

From youth to age a reverend hermit 
grew; 

The moss his bed, the cave his humble 
cell, 

His food the fruits, his drink the crystal 
well: 

Remote from man, with God he pass’d the 
days, 

Prayer all his business, all his pleasure 
praise. 

A life so sacred, such serene repose, 

Seem’d heaven itself, till one suggestion 
rose; 

That vice should triumph, virtue vice obey 

This sprung some doubt of Providence’s 
sway: 










MORAL AND DIDACTIC POETRY. 


G87 


His hopes no more a certain prospect 
boast, 

And all the tenor of his soul is lost. 

80 when a smooth expanse receives im¬ 
prest 

Calm Nature’s image on its watery breast, 

Down bend the banks, the trees depending 
grow, 

And skies beneath with answering colors 
glow.; 

But if a stone the gentle scene divide, 

Swift ruffling circles curl on every side, 

And glimmering fragments of a broken 
sun, 

Banks, trees, and skies, in thick disorder 
run. 

To clear this doubt, to know the world by 
sight, 

To find if books, or swains, report it 
right 

(For yet by swains alone the world he 
knew, 

Whose feet came wandering o’er the 
nightly dew), 

He quits his cell; the pilgrim-staff he 
bore, 

And fix’d the scallop in his hat before ; 

Then with the sun a rising journey went, 

Sedate to think, and watching each event. 

The morn was wasted in the jjathless 
grass, 

And long and lonesome was the wild to 
p<iss 5 

But when the southern sun had warm’d 
the day, 

A youth came posting o’er a crossing way ; 

His raiment decent, his complexion fair, 

And soft in graceful ringlets waved his 
hair. 

Then near approaching, “Father, hail!” 
he cried, 

“ And hail, my son,” the reverend sire re¬ 
plied ; 

Words follow’d words, from question an¬ 
swer flow’d, 

And talk of various kind deceived the 
road; 

Till each with other pleased, and loath to 
part, 

While in their age they differ, join in 
heart: 


Thus stands an aged elm in ivy bound, 

Thus youthful ivy clasps an elm around. 

Now sunk the sun; the closing hour of 
day 

Came onward, mantled o’er with sober 
gray; 

Nature in silence bade the world repose: 

When near the road a stately palace 
rose: 

There by the moon through ranks of trees 
they pass, 

Whose verdure crown’d their sloping sides 
of grass. 

It chanced the noble master of the dome 

Still made his house the wandering stran¬ 
ger’s home: 

Yet still the kindness, from a thirst of 
praise, 

Proved the vain flourish of expensive 
ease. 

The pair arrive: the liveried servants 
wait; 

Their lord receives them at the pompous 
gate. 

The table groans with costly piles of 
food, 

And all is more than hospitably good. 

Then led to rest, the day’s long toil they 
drown, 

Deep sunk in sleep, and silk, and heaps of 
down. 

At length ’tis morn, and at the dawn of 
day, 

Along the wide canals the zephyrs play ; 

Fresh o’er the gay parterres the breezes 
creep, 

And shake the neighboring wood to banish 
sleep. 

Up rise the guests, obedient to the call: 

An early banquet deck’d the splendid 
hall ; 

Rich luscious wine a golden goblet graced, 

Which the kind master forced the guests 
to taste. 

Then, pleased and thankful, from the porch 
they go, 

And, but the landlord, none had cause of 
woe; 

His cup was vanish’d ; for in secret guise 

The younger guest purloin’d the glittering 
prize. 








G88 


FIRESIDE ENCYCLOPEDIA OF POETRY. 


As one who spies a serpent in his way, 
Glistening and basking in the summer 
ray, 

Disorder’d stops to shun the danger near, 
Then walks with faintness on, and looks 
with fear: 

So seem’d the sire; when, far upon the 
road, 

The shining spoil his wily partner show’d. 
He stopp’d with silence, walk’d with trem¬ 
bling heart, 

And much he wish’d, but durst not ask to 
part : 

Murmuring he lifts his eyes, and thinks it 
hard, 

That generous actions meet a base reward. 

While thus they pass, the sun his glory 
shrouds, 

The changing skies hang out their sable 
clouds; 

A sound in air presaged approaching rain, 
And beasts to covert scud across the plain. 
Warn’d by the signs, the wandering pair 
retreat, 

To seek for shelter at a neighboring seat. 
'Twas built with turrets, on a rising ground, 
And strong, and large, and unimproved 
around; 

Its owner’s temper, timorous and severe, 
Unkind and griping, caused a desert there. 

As near the miser’s heavy doors they drew, 
Fierce rising gusts with sudden fury blew; 
The nimble lightning mix’d with showers 
began, 

And o’er their heads loud-rolling thunder 
ran. 

Here long they knock, but'knock or call in 
vain, 

Driven by the wind, and batter’d by the 
rain. 

At length some pity warm’d the master’s 
breast 

(’Twas then, his threshold first received a 
guest), 

Slow creaking turns the door with jealous 
care, 

And half he welcomes in the shivering 
pair; 

One frugal fagot lights the naked walls, 
And Nature’s fervor through their limbs 
recalls: 


Bread of the coarsest sort, with eager 
wine 

(Each hardly granted), served them both 
to dine; 

And when the tempest first appear’d to 
cease, 

A ready warning bid them part in peace. 

With still remark the pondering hermit 
view’d 

In one so rich, a life so poor and rude; 

And why should such (within himself he 
cried) 

Lock the lost wealth a thousand want be¬ 
side? 

But what new marks of wonder soon took 
place 

In every settling feature of his face, 

When from his vest the young companion 
bore 

That cup the generous landlord own’d be¬ 
fore, 

And paid profusely with the precious bowl 

The stinted kindness of this churlish soul l 

But now the clouds in airy tumult fly, 

The sun emerging opes an azure sky ; 

A fresher green the smelling leaves display, 

And, glittering as they tremble, cheer the 
day: 

The weather courts them from the poor 
retreat, 

And the glad master bolts the warv gate. 

While hence they walk, the pilgrim’s 
bosom wrought 

With all the travail of uncertain thought; 

His partner’s acts without their cause 
appear, 

’Twas there a vice, and seem’d a madness 
here: 

Detesting that, and pitying this, he goes, 

Lost and confounded with the various 
shows. 

Now night’s dim shades again involve the 
sky; 

Again the wanderers want a place to lie, 

Again they search, and find a lodging 
nigh: 

The soil improved around, the mansion 
neat, 

And neither poorly low nor idly great: 








MORAL AND DIDACTIC POETRY. 


689 


It seem’d to speak its master’s turn of 
mind, 

Content, and not for praise, but virtue 
kind. 

Hither the walkers turn with weary feet, 

Then bless the mansion, and the master 
greet: 

Their greeting fair bestow’d with modest 
guise, 

The courteous master hears, and thus re¬ 
plies : 

Without a vain, without a grudging 
heart, 

To Him who gives us all, I yield a part; 

From Him you come, for Him accept it 
here, 

A frank and sober, more than costly 
cheer.” 

He spoke, and bid the welcome table 
spread, 

Then talk’d of virtue till the time of 
bed, 

When the grave household round his hall 
repair, 

Warn’d by a bell, and close the hours with 
prayer. 

At length the world, renew’d by calm re¬ 
pose, 

Was strong for toil, the dappled morn 
arose: 

Before the pilgrims part, the younger 
crept 

Near the closed cradle where an infant 
slept, 

And writhed his neck: the landlord’s 
little pride, 

Oh strange return ! grew black, and gasp’d, 
and died. 

Horror of horrors ! what! his only son ! 

How look’d our hermit when the fact was 
done? 

Not hell, though hell’s black jaws in 
sunder part, 

And breathe blue fire, could more assault 
his heart. 

Confused, and struck with silence at the 
deed, 

He flies, but trembling fails to fly with 
speed. 

44 


His steps the youth pursues; the country 
lay 

Perplex’d with roads, a servant show’d 
the way: 

A river cross’d the path; the passage o’er 

Was nice to find; the servant trod be¬ 
fore : 

Long arms of oaks an open bridge sup¬ 
plied, 

And deep the waves beneath the bending 
glide. 

The youth, who seem’d to watch a time 
to sin, 

Approach’d the careless guide, and thrust 
him in; 

Plunging he falls, and rising lifts his head, 

Then flashing turns, and sinks among the 
dead. 

Wild, sparkling rage inflames the father’s 
eyes. 

He bursts the bands of fear, and madly 
cries, 

“ Detested wretch!”—but scarce his speech 
began, 

When the strange partner seem’d no 
longer man: 

Plis youthful face grew more serenely 
sweet; 

His robe turn’d white, and flow’d upon 
his feet; 

Fair rounds of radiant points invest his 
hair; 

Celestial odors breathe through purpled 
air; 

And wings, whose colors glitter’d on the 
day, 

Wide at his back their gradual plumes dis¬ 
play, 

The form ethereal bursts upon his sight, 

And moves in all the majesty of light. 

Though loud at first the pilgrim’s passion 
grew, 

Sudden he gazed, and wist not what to 
do: 

Surprise in secret chains his words sus¬ 
pends, 

And in a calm his settling temper ends. 

But silence here the beauteous angel 
broke 

(The voice of music ravish’d as he 
spoke): 






690 


FIRESIDE ENCYCLOPAEDIA OF POETRY. 


“Thy prayer, thy praise, thy life to vice 
unknown, 

In sweet memorial rise before the throne: 

»These charms success in our bright region 
find, 

And force an angel down, to calm thy 
mind; 

For this commission’d, I forsook the sky, 

Nay, cease to kneel—thy fellow-servant I. 

“ Then know the truth of government 
divine, 

And let these scruples be no longer thine. 

“The Maker justly claims that world He 
made, 

In this the right of Providence is laid; 

Its sacred majesty through all depends 

On using second means to work His ends: 

’Tis thus, withdrawn in state from human 
eye, 

The Power exerts His attributes on high, 

Your actions uses, nor controls your will, 

And bids the doubting sons of men be 
still. 

“What strange events can strike with 
more surprise 

Than those which lately struck thy won¬ 
dering eyes? 

Yet taught by these, confess th’ Almighty 
just, 

And where you can’t unriddle, learn to 
trust! 

“ The great, vain man, who fared on 
costly food, 

Whose life was too luxurious to be good ; 

Who made his ivory stands with goblets 
shine, 

And forced his guests to morning draughts 
of wine, 

Has, with the cup, the graceless custom 
lost, 

And still he welcomes, but with less of 
cost. 

“The mean, suspicious wretch, whose 
bolted door 

Ne’er moved in duty to the wandering 
poor; 

With him I left the cup, to teach his mind 

That Pleaven can bless, if mortals will be 
kind. 


Conscious of wanting worth, he views the 
bowl, 

And feels compassion touch his grateful 
soul. 

Thus artists melt the sullen ore of lead, 

With heaping coals of fire upon its 
head; 

In the kind warmth the metal learns to 
glow, 

And, loose from dross, the silver runs be¬ 
low. 

“Long had our pious friend in virtue 
trod, 

But now the child half wean’d his heart 
from God; 

Child of his age, for him he lived in 
pain, 

And measured back his steps to earth 
again. 

To what excesses had this dotage run ! 

But God, to save the father, took the son. 

To all but thee, in fits he seem’d to go 

(And ’twas my ministry to deal the 
blow). 

The poor fond parent, humbled in the 
dust, 

Now owns in tears the punishment was 
just. 

“ But how had all his fortune felt a 
Avrack 

Had that false servant sped in safety 
back! 

This night his treasured heaps he meant 
to steal, 

And what a fund of charity Avould fail! 

“ Thus Heaven instructs thy mind: this 
trial o’er, 

Depart in peace, resign, and sin no more.” 

On sounding pinions here the youth with¬ 
drew, 

The sage stood Avondering as the seraph 
flew. 

Thus look’d Elisha, Avhen, to mount on 
high, 

His master took the chariot of the sky; 

The fiery pomp ascending left the view; 

The prophet gazed, and wish’d to follow 
too. 






MORAL AND DIDACTIC POETRY. 


691 


The bending hermit here a prayer be¬ 
gun : 

<f Lord ! as in heaven, on earth Thy will be 
done!” 

Then gladly turning, sought his ancient 
place, 

And pass’d a life of piety and peace. 

Thomas Parnell. 


The Squire’s Pew. 

A SLANTING ray of evening light 
Shoots through the yellow pane; 

It makes the hided crimson bright, 

And gilds the fringe again ; 

The window’s Gothic framework falls 
In oblique shadows on the walls. 

And since those trappings first were new, 
How many a cloudless day, 

To rob the velvet of its hue, 

Has come and pass’d away ! 

How many a setting sun hath made 
That curious lattice-work of shade! 

Crumbled beneath the hillock green 
The cunning hand must be 
That carved this fretted door, I ween, 
Acorn, and fleur-de-lis; 

And now the worm hath done her part 
In mimicking the chisel’s art. 

In days of yore (as now we call), 

When the first James was king, 

The courtly knight from yonder hall 
His train did hither bring, 

All seated round, in order due, 

With ’broider’d suit and buckled shoe. 

On damask cushions deck’d with fringe 
All reverently they knelt; 

Prayer-books with brazen hasp and hinge, 
In ancient English spelt, 

Each holding in a lily hand, 

Responsive to the priest’s command. 

Now, streaming down the vaulted aisle, 
The sunbeam long and lone, 

Illumes the characters a while 
Of their inscription-stone; 

And there in marble, hard and cold, 

The knight with all his train behold. 


Outstretch’d together are express’d 
He and my lady fair, 

With hands uplifted on the breast, 

In attitude of prayer; 

Long-visaged, clad in armor, he— 

With ruffled arm and bodice she. 

Set forth in order as they died, 

Their numerous offspring bend, 
Devoutly kneeling side by side, 

As if they did intend 
For past omissions to atone 
By saying endless prayers in stone. 

Those mellow days are past and dim, 

But generations new, 

In regular descent from him, 

Have fill’d the stately pew, 

And in the same succession go 
To occupy the vaults below. 

And now the polish’d modern squire 
And his gay train appear, 

Who duly to the hall retire 
A season every year, 

And fill the seats with belle and beau, 

As ’twas so many years ago. 

Perchance, all thoughtless as they tread 
The hollow-sounding floor 
Of that dark house of kindred dread, 
Which shall, as heretofore, 

In turn receive to silent rest 
Another and another guest: 

The feather’d hearse and sable train, 

In all their wonted state, 

Shall wind along the village lane, 

And stand before the gate; 

Brought many a distant country through, 
To join the final rendezvous. 

And when the race is swept away, 

All to their dusty beds, 

Still shall the mellow evening ray 
Shine gayly o’er their heads, 

While other faces, fresh and new, 

Shall fill the squire’s deserted pew. 

Jane Taylor. 









FI RESIDE ENCYCLOPEDIA OF POETRY. 


692 


The Old and Young Courtier. 

An old song made by an aged old pate, 

Of an old worshipful gentleman, who had 
a great estate, 

That kept a brave old house at a bountiful 
rate, 

And an old porter to relieve the poor at 
his gate : 

Like an old courtier of the queen’s, 
And the queen’s old courtier. 

With an old lady, whose anger one word 
assuages, 

That every quarter paid their old servants 
their wages, 

And never knew what belong’d to coach¬ 
men, footmen, nor pages, 

But kept twenty old fellows with blue 
coats and badges; 

Like an old courtier of the queen’s, 
And the queen’s old courtier. 

With an old study fill’d full of learned old 
books, 

With an old reverend chaplain, you might 
know him by his looks ; 

With an old buttery hatch, worn quite off 
the hooks, 

And an old kitchen that maintain’d half 
a dozen old cooks ; 

Like an old courtier of the queen’s, 
And the queen’s old courtier. 

With an old hall hung about with pikes, 
guns, and bows, 

With old swords, and bucklers that had 
borne many shrewd blows, 

And an old frieze coat to cover his wor¬ 
ship’s trunk hose; 

And a cup of old sherry to comfort his 
copper nose; 

Like an old courtier of the queen’s, 
And the queen’s old courtier. 

With a good old fashion, when Christmas 
was come, 

To call in all his old neighbors with bag¬ 
pipe and drum, 

With good cheer enough to furnish every 
old room, 

And old liquor able to make a cat speak 
and a man dumb ; 

Like an old courtier of the queen’s, 
And the queen’s old courtier. 


With an old falconer, huntsman, and a 
kennel of hounds, 

That never hawk’d nor hunted but in his 
own grounds, 

Who, like a wise man, kept himself within 
his own bounds, 

And when he died gave every child a 
thousand good pounds; 

Like an old courtier of the queen’s, 
And the queen’s old courtier. 

But to his eldest son his house and lands 
he assign’d, 

Charging him in his will to keep the old 
bountiful mind, 

To be good to his old tenants, and to his 
neighbors be kind; 

But in the ensuing ditty you shall hear 
how he was inclined ; 

Like a young courtier of the king’s, 
And the king’s young courtier. 

Like a flourishing young gallant, newly 
come to his land, 

Who keeps a brace of painted madams at 
his command, 

And takes up a thousand pounds upon his 
father’s land, 

And gets drunk in a tavern till he can 
neither go nor stand; 

Like a young courtier of the king’s, 
And the king’s young courtier. 

With a new-fangled lady, that is dainty, 
nice, and spare, 

Who never knew what belong’d to good 
housekeeping, or care; 

Who buys gaudy-color’d fans to play with 
wanton air, 

And seven or eight different dressings of 
other women’s hair; 

Like a young courtier of the king’s, 
And the king’s young courtier. 

With a new-fashion’d hall, built where the 
old one stood, 

Hung round with new pictures that do the 
poor no good; 

With a fine marble chimney, wherein burns 
neither coal nor wood, 

And a new smooth shovel-board, whereon 
no victuals ne’er stood ; 

Like a young courtier of the king’s. 
And the king’s young courtier. 









OLIVER WENDELL HOLMES 

The Poet’s Birthplace and Study. 
















JOHN G. WHITTIER 

The Poet’s Home and Birthplace. 

















































MORAL AND DIDACTIC POETRY. 


693 


With a new study stuff’d full of pamphlets 
and plays, 

And a new chaplain that swears faster than 
1 he prays, 

With a new buttery hatch that opens once 
in four or five days, 

And a new French cook to devise fine kick¬ 
shaws and toys; 

Like a young courtier of the king’s, 
And the king’s young courtier. 

With a new fashion, when Christmas is 
drawing on, 

And a new journey to London straight we 
all must be gone, 

And leave none to keep house but our new 
porter John, 

Who relieves the poor with a thump on the 
back with a stone; 

Like a young courtier of the king’s, 
And the king’s young courtier. 

With a new gentleman usher, whose car¬ 
riage is complete; 

With a new coachman, footman, and pages 
to carry up the meat; 

With a waiting gentlewoman, whose dress¬ 
ing is very neat, 

Who, when her lady has dined, lets the 
servants not eat; 

Like a young courtier of the king’s, 
And the king’s young courtier. 

With new titles of honor, bought with his 
father’s old gold, 

For which sundry of his ancestors’ old 
manors are sold; 

And this is the course most of our new 
gallants hold, 

Which makes that good housekeeping is 
now grown so cold 

Among our young courtiers of the 
; king, 

' Or the king’s young courtiers. 

Author Unknown. 

The End of the Play. 

The play is done, the curtain drops, 
Slow falling to the prompter’s bell; 

A moment yet the actor stops, 

And looks around to say farewell. 


j It is an irksome word and task, 

And when he’s laugh’d and said his say, 
He shows, as he removes the mask, 

A face that’s anything but gay. 

One word, ere yet the evening ends,— 
Let’s close it with a parting rhyme, 

And pledge a hand to all young friends, 

As fits the merry Christmas-time; 
i On life’s wide scene you, too, have parts, 
That Fate ere long shall bid you play; 
Good-night! with honest gentle hearts 
A kindly greeting go alway. 

Good-night!—I’d say the griefs, the joys, 
Just hinted in this mimic page, 

The triumphs and defeats of boys, 

Are but repeated in our age; 

I’d say your woes are not less keen, 

Your hopes more vain, than those of 
men, — 

Your pangs or pleasures of fifteen 
At forty-five play’d o’er again. 

I’d say we suffer and we strive 
Not less nor more as men than boys, 
With grizzled beards at forty-five, 

As erst at twelve in corduroys ; 

And if, in time of sacred youth, 

We learn’d at home to love and pray, 
Pray Heaven that early love and truth 
May never wholly pass away. 

And in the world, as in the school, 

I’d say how fate may change and shift, 
The prize be sometimes with the fool, 

The race not always to the swift; 

The strong may yield, the good may fall, 
The great man be a vulgar clown, 

The knave be lifted over all, 

The kind cast pitilessly down. 

Who knows the inscrutable design? 

Blessed be He who took and gave ! 

Why should your mother, Charles, not 
mine, 

Be weeping at her darling’s grave? 

We bow to Heaven that will’d it so, 

That darkly rules the fate of all, 

That sends the respite or the blow, 

That’s free to give or to recall. 

I 

This crowns his feast with wine and wit: 

, Who brought him to that mirth and state? 









604 


FIRESIDE ENCYCLOPEDIA OF POETRY. 


His betters, see, below him sit, 

Or hunger hopeless at the gate. 

Who bade the mud from Dives’ wheel 
To spurn the rags of Lazarus? 

Come, brother, in that dust we’ll kneel, 
Confessing Heaven that ruled it thus. 

So each shall mourn, in life’s advance, 
Dear hopes, dear friends, untimely kill’d, 
Shall grieve for many a forfeit chance, 
And longing passion unfulfill’d. 

Amen ! whatever fate be sent, 

Pray God the heart may kindly glow, 
Although the head with cares be bent, 

And whiten’d with the winter snow. 

Come wealth or want, come good or ill, 

Let young and old accept their part, 

And bow before the awful Will, 

And bear it with an honest heart, 

Who misses, or who wins the prize. 

Go; lose or conquer as you can, 

But if you fail, or if you rise, 

Be each, pray God, a gentleman. 

A gentleman, or old or young! 

(Bear kindly with my humble lays); 

The sacred chorus first was sung 
Upon the first of Christmas days; 

The shepherds heard it overhead, 

The joyful angels raised it then: 

Glory to Heaven on high, it said, 

And peace on earth to gentle men! 

My song, save this, is little worth; 

I lay the weary pen aside, 

And wish you health, and love, and mirth, 
As fits the solemn Christmas-tide. 

As fits the holy Christmas birth, 

Be this, good friends, our carol still,— 
Be peace on earth, be peace on earth, 

To men of gentle will. 

William Makepeace Thackeray. 

Man. 

I WAS born as free as the silvery light 
That laughs in a Southern fountain; 
Free as the sea-fed bird that nests 
On a Scandinavian mountain ; 

Free as the wind that mocks at the sway 
And pinioning clasp of another— 

Yet in the slave they scourged to-day 
I saw, and knew—my brother! 


Vested in purple I sat apart, 

But the cord that smote him bruised me; 
I closed my ears, but the sob that broke 
From his savage breast accused me ; 

No phrase of reasoning judgment just 
The plaint of my soul could smother, 

A creature vile, abased to the dust, 

I knew him still—my brother. 

And the autumn day that had smiled so 
fair 

Seemed suddenly overclouded: 

A gloom, more dreadful than nature owns, 
My human mind enshrouded; 

I thought of the power benign that made 
And bound men one to the other, 

And I felt in my brother’s fear afraid, 
And ashamed in the shame of my brother. 

Florence Earle Coates. 

The Challenge. 

A warrior hung his plumed helm 
—On the ragged trunk of an aged elm; 

“ Where is the knight so bold,” he cried, 
“That dares my haughty crest deride?” 

The wind came by with a sudden howl, 
And dashed the helm on the pathway foul, 
And shook in scorn each sturdy limb,— 
For where was the knight that could fight 
with him ? 

Fitz-James O’Brien. 


IN THE DOWN-HILL OF LIFE. 

In the down-hill of life, when I find I’m 
declining, 

May my lot no less fortunate be 

Than a snug elbow-chair can afford for re¬ 
clining, 

And a cot that o’erlooks the wide sea; 

With an ambling pad-pony to pace o’er 
the lawn, 

While I carol away idle sorrow, 

And blithe as the lark that each day hails 
the dawn, 

Look forward with hope for to-morrow. 

With a porch at my door, both for shelter 
and shade too, 

) As the sunshine or rain may prevail; 





MORAL AND DIDACTIC POETRY. 


695 


And a small spot of ground for the use of 
the spade too, 

With a barn for the use of the flail: 

A cow for my dairy, a dog for my game, 

And a purse when a friend wants to 
borrow; 

I’ll envy no nabob his riches or fame, 

Nor what honors await him to-morrow. 

From the bleak northern blast may my cot 
be completely 

Secured by a neighboring hill ; 

And at night may repose steal upon me 
more sweetly 

By the sound of a murmuring rill: 

And while peace and plenty I find at my 
board, 

With a heart free from sickness and 
sorrow, 

With my friends may I share what to-day 
may afford, 

And let them spread the table to-morrow. 

And when I at last must throw off this 
frail covering 

Which I’ve worn for threescore years 
and ten, 

On the brink of the grave I’ll not seek to 
keep hovering, 

Nor my thread wish to spin o’er again: 

But my face in the glass I’ll serenely 
survey, 

And with smiles count each wrinkle and 
furrow; 

As this old worn-out stuff, which is thread¬ 
bare to-day, 

May become everlasting to-morrow. 

John Collins. 


Birds. 

Birds are singing round my window, 
Tunes the sweetest ever heard, 

And I hang my cage there daily, 

But I never catch a bird. 

So with thoughts my brain is peopled, 
And they sing there all day long: 
But they will not fold their pinions 
In the little cage of Song! 

Richard Henry Stoddard. 


How Many Voices. 

How many voices gaily sing, 

“ O happy morn, O happy spring 
Of life!” meanwhile there comes o’er me 
A softer voice from memory, 

And says, “ If loves and hopes have flown 
With years, think too what griefs are 
gone!” 

Walter Savage Landor. 

The Eve of Election. 

From gold to gray 
Our mild sweet day 
Of Indian Summer fades too soon ; 

But tenderly 
Above the sea 

Hangs, white and calm, the hunter’s 
moon. 

In its pale fire, 

The village spire 

Shows like the Zodiac’s spectral lance ; 
The painted walls 
Whereon it falls 

Transfigured stand in marble trance ! 

O’er fallen leaves 
The west wind grieves, 

Yet comes a seed-time round again ; 

And morn shall see 
The State sown free 
With baleful tares or healthful grain. 

Along the street 
The shadows meet 
Of Destiny, whose hands conceal 
The moulds of fate 
That shape the State, 

And make or mar the common weal. 

Around I see 
The powers that be ; 

I stand by Empire’s primal springs ; 

And princes meet 
In every street, 

And hear the tread of uncrown’d kings! 

Hark ! through the crowd 
The laugh runs loud, 

Beneath the sad, rebuking moon. 

God save the land, 

A careless hand 

i May shake or swerve ere morrow’s noon 1 








696 


FIRESIDE ENCYCLOPAEDIA OF POETRY. 


No jest is this ; 

One cast amiss 

May blast the hope of Freedom’s year. 
Oh, take me where 
Are hearts of prayer, 

And foreheads bow’d in reverent fear! 

Not lightly fall 
Beyond recall 

The written scrolls a breath can float ; 

The crowning fact, 

The kingliest act 

Of Freedom, is the freeman’s vote! 

For pearls that gem 
A diadem 

The diver in the deep sea dies; 

The regal right 
We boast to-night 
Is ours through costlier sacrifice : 

The blood of Vane, 

His prison pain 

Who traced the path the Pilgrim trod, 
And hers whose faith 
Drew strength from death, 

And prayed her Russell up to God ! 

Our hearts grow cold, 

We lightly hold 

A right which brave men died to gain; 
The stake, the cord, 

The axe, the sword, 

Grim nurses at its birth of pain. 

The shadow rend, 

And o’er us bend, 

0 martyrs, with your crowns and palms,— 
Breathe through these throngs 
Your battle-songs, 

Your scaffold prayers, and dungeon psalms! 

Look from the sky, 

Like God’s great eye, 

Thou solemn moon, with searching beam; 
Till in the sight 
Of thy pure light 

Our mean self-seekings meaner seem. 

Shame from our hearts 
Unworthy arts, 

The fraud design’d, the purpose dark ; 

And smite away 
The hands we lay 
Profanely on the sacred ark. 


To party claims, 

And private aims, 

Reveal that august face of Truth, 

Whereto are given 
The age of heaven, 

The beauty of immortal youth. 

So shall our voice 
Of sovereign choice 
Swell the deep bass of duty done, 

And strike the key 
Of time to be, 

When God and man shall speak as one! 

John Greenleaf Whittier. 

The Battle-Field. 

Once this soft turf, this rivulet’s sands, 
Were trampled by a hurrying crowd, 
And fiery hearts and armed hands 
Encounter'd in the battle-cloud. 

Ah, never shall the land forget 
How gush’d the life-blood of her brave,-' 
Gush’d, warm with hope and courage yet, 
Upon the soil they fought to save. 

Now all is calm, and fresh, and still; 

Alone the chirp of flitting bird, 

And talk of children on the hill, 

And bell of wandering kine, are heard. 

No solemn host goes trailing by 

The black-mouth’d gun and staggering 
wain; 

Men start not at the battle-cry,— 

Oh, be it never heard again ! 

Soon rested those who fought; but thou 
Who minglest in the harder strife 
For truths which men receive not now, 
Thy warfare only ends with life. 

A friendless warfare ! lingering long 
Through weary day and weary year; 

A wild and many-weapon’d throng 
Hang on thy front and flank and rear. 

Yet nerve thy spirit to the proof, 

And blench not at thy chosen lot; 

The timid good may stand aloof, 

The sage may frown,—yet faint thou not. 

Nor heed the shaft too surely cast, 

The foul and hissing bolt of scorn ; 






MORAL AND DIDACTIC POETRY. 


697 


For with thy side shall dwell, at last, 

The victory of endurance born. 

Truth, crush’d to earth, shall rise again,— 
The eternal years of God are hers ; 

But Error, wounded, writhes in pain, 

And dies among his worshippers. 

Yea, though thou lie upon the dust, 

When they who help’d thee flee in fear, 
Die full of hope and manly trust, 

Like those who fell in battle here. 

Another hand thy sword shall wield, 
Another hand the standard wave, 

Till from the trumpet’s mouth is peal’d 
The blast of triumph o’er thy grave. 

William Cullen Bryant. 

The Battle of Blenheim. 

It was a summer evening,— 

Old Kaspar’s work was done, 

And he before his cottage-door 
Was sitting in the sun ; 

And by him sported on the green 
His little grandchild Wilhelmine. 

She saw her brother Peterkin 
Roll something large and round, 
Which he beside the rivulet, 

In playing there, had found ; 

He came to ask what he had found 
That was so large and smooth and round. 

Old Kaspar took it from the boy, 

Who stood expectant by ; 

And then the old man shook his head, 
And, with a natural sigh,— 

‘‘ ’Tis some poor fellow’s skull,” said he, 

“ Who fell in the great victory. 

“ I find them in the garden, 

For there’s many hereabout; 

And often, when I go to plough, 

The ploughshare turns them out; 

For many thousand men,” said he, 

“ Were slain in that great victory.” 

“ Now tell us what ’twas all about,” 
Young Peterkin he cries ; 

And little Wilhelmine looks up 
With wonder-waiting eyes,— 

“ Now tell us all about the war, 

And what they fought each other for.” 


“ It was the English,” Kaspar cried, 

“ Who put the French to rout; 

But what they fought each other for 
I could not w'ell make out; 

But everybody said,” quoth he, 

I “ That ’twas a famous victory. 

“ My father lived at Blenheim then, 

Yon little stream hard by ; 

They burnt his dwelling to the ground, 
And he was forced to fly ; 

So with his wife and child he fled, 

Nor had he where to rest his head. 

“ With fire and sword the country round 
Was wasted far and wide ; 

And many a chikling mother then, 

And new-born baby died ; 

But things like that, you know, must be 
At every famous victory. 

“ They say it was a shocking sight 
After the field was won,— 

For many thousand bodies here 
Lay rotting in the sun; 

But things like that, you know, must be 
After a famous victory. 

“ Great praise the Duke of Marlbro’ won, 
And our good prince Eugene.” 

“ Why, ’twas a very wicked thing !” 

Said little Wilhelmine. 

' “ Nay, nay, my little girl!” quoth he, 

“ It was a famous victory. 

“ And everybody praised the duke 
Who this great fight did win.” 

“ But what good came of it at last?” 
Quoth little Peterkin. 

“ Why, that I cannot tell,” said he; 

“ But ’twas a famous victory.” 

Kobert Southey. 


Christian Charity. 

Oh, stay not thine hand, when the winter’s 
wind rude 

Blows cold through the dwellings of 
want and despair, 

To ask if misfortune has come to the good, 
Or if folly has wrought the sad wreck that 
is there. 








FIRESIDE ENCYCLOPAEDIA OF POETRY. 


698 


When the Saviour of men raised his finger 
to heal, 

Did he ask if the sufferer were Gentile 
or Jew? 

When thousands were fed with a bountiful 
meal, 

Was it given alone to the faithful and 
true ? 

If the heart-stricken wanderer asks thee 
for bread, 

In suffering he bows to necessity’s laws; 

When the wife moans in sickness, the chil¬ 
dren unfed, 

The cup must be bitter: oh, ftsk not the 
cause. 

Then scan not too closely the frailties of 
those 

Whose bosoms may bleed on a cold win¬ 
ter’s day, 

And give to the wretched who tells thee his 
woes, 

And from him that would borrow, oh 
turn not away! 

Reynell Coates. 

A Poet's Epitaph. 

Stop, mortal! Here thy brother lies,— 
The poet of the poor. 

His books were rivers, woods, and skies, 
The meadows and the moor; 

His teachers were the torn heart’s wail, 
The tyrant and the slave, 

The street, the factory, the jail, 

The palace,—and the grave ! 

Sin met thy brother everywhere! 

And is thy brother blamed? 

From passion, danger, doubt, and care 
He no exemption claimed. 

The meanest thing, earth’s feeblest worm, 
He feared to scorn or hate; 

But, honoring in a peasant’s form 
The equal of the great, 

He blessed the steward, whose wealth 
makes 

The poor man’s little more ; 

Yet loathed the haughty wretch that takes 
From plundered labor’s store. 

A hand to do, a head to plan, 

A heart to feel and dare,-^ 


Tell man’s worst foes, here lies the man 
Who drew them as they are. 

Ebenezer Elliott. 

Life . 

What is the existence of man’s life 
But open war or slumber’d strife? 

Where sickness to his sense presents 
The combat of the elements, 

And never feels a perfect peace 

Till death’s cold hand signs his release. 

It is a storm—where the hot blood 
Outvies in rage the boiling flood : 

And each loud passion of the mind 
Is a furious gust of wind, 

Which beats the bark with many a wave, 
Till he casts anchor in the grave. 

It is a flower—which buds and grows, 

And withers as the leaves disclose; 

Whose spring and fall faint seasons keep, 
Like fits of waking before sleep, 

Then shrinks into that fatal mould 
Where its first being was enroll’d. 

It is a dream—whose seeming truth; 

Is moralized in age and youth ; 

Where all the comforts he can share 
As wand’ring as his fancies are, 

Till in a mist of dark decay 
The dreamers vanish quite away. 

It is a dial—which points out 
The sunset as it moves about; 

And shadows out in lines of night 
The subtle stages of Time’s flight, 

Till all-obscuring earth had laid 
His body in perpetual shade. 

It is a weary interlude 
Which doth short joys, long woes, include: 
The world the stage, the prologue tears ; 
The acts vain hopes and varied fears ; 

The scene shuts up with loss of breath, 
And leaves no epilogue but Death ! 

Henry King. 

Good Life, Long Life. 

It is not growing like a tree 
In bulk, doth make mail better be, 

Or standing long an oak, three hundred 
year, 

To fall a log at last, dry, bald, and sear. 









MORAL AND DIDACTIC POETRY. 


699 


A lily of a day 
Is fairer far, in May, 

Although it fall and die that night, 

It was the plant and flower of light! 

In small proportions we just beauties see: 
And in short measures life may perfect be. 

Ben Jonson. 


Verses 

SUPPOSED TO BE WRITTEN BY ALEXANDER 

Selkirk during his Solitary Abode 

in the Island of Juan Fernandez. 

I am monarch of all I survey; 

My right there is none to dispute; 

From the centre all round to the sea 
I am lord of the fowl and the brute. 

O Solitude! where are the charms 
That sages have seen in thy face? 

Better dwell in the midst of alarms 
Than reign in this horrible place. 

I am out of humanity’s reach; 

I must finish my journey alone; 

Never hear the sweet music of speech— 
I start at the sound of my own. 

The beasts that roam over the plain, 

My form with indifference see; 

They are so unacquainted with man, 
Their tameness is shocking to me. 

Society, Friendship, and Love, 

Divinely bestow’d upon man, 

Oh had I the wings of a dove, 

How soon would I taste you again ! 

My sorrows I then might assuage 
In the ways of religion and truth, 

Might learn from the wisdom of age, 
And be cheer’d by the sallies of youth. 

Religion ! what treasure untold 
Resides in that heavenly word ! 

More precious than silver and gold, 

Or all that this earth can afford. 

But the sound of the church-going bell 
These valleys and rocks never heard; 

Never sigh’d at the sound of a knell, 

Or smiled when a Sabbath appear’d. 

Ye winds that have made me your sport, 
Convey to this desolate shore 

Some cordial endearing report 
Of a land I shall visit no more : 


My friends, do they now and then send 
A wish or a thought after me? 

Oh tell me I yet have a friend, 

Though a friend I am never to see. 

Flow fleet is the glance of the mind! 

Compared with the speed of its flight, 
The tempest itself lags behind, 

And the swift-wingfed arrows of light. 
When I think of my own native land, 

In a moment I seem to be there ; 

But, alas ! recollection at hand 
Soon hurries me back to despair. 

But the sea-fowl is gone to her nest, 

The beast is laid down in his lair; 
Even here is a season of rest, 

And I to my cabin repair. 

There’s mercy in every place, 

And mercy—encouraging thought!— 
Gives even affliction a grace, 

And reconciles man to his lot. 

William Cowper. 

Faith. 

Better trust all and be deceived, 

And weep that trust and that deceiving, 
Than doubt one heart that if believed 
Had bless’d one’s life with true believ¬ 
ing. 

Oh, in this mocking world too fast 
The doubting fiend o’ertakes our youth ; 
Better be cheated to the last 
Than lose the blessed hope of truth. 

Frances Anne-Kemble. 

The lovely Lass of Inverness. 

The lovely lass o’ Inverness, 

Nae joy nor pleasure can she see; 

For e’en and morn she cries, Alas! 

And aye the saut tear blin’s her e’e. 
Drumossie Moor—Dfumossie day— 

A waefu’ day it was to me! 

For there I lost my father dear, 

My father dear, and brethren three. 

Their winding sheet the bluidy clay, 

Their graves are growing green to see, 

1 And by them lies the dearest lad 
That ever blest a woman’s e’e! 








700 


FIRESIDE ENCYCLOPAEDIA OF POETRY. 


Now wae to thee, thou cruel lord, 

A bluidy man I trow thou be! 

For monie a heart thou hast made sair, 
That ne’er did wrong to thine or thee. 

Robert Burns. 

A Hundred Years to Come. 

Where, where will be the birds that sing, 
A hundred years to come? 

The flowers that now in beauty spring, 

A hundred years to come? 

The rosy cheek, 

The lofty brow, 

The heart that beats 
So quickly now? 

Where, where will be our hopes and fears, 
Joys’ pleasant smiles and sorrow’s tears, 

A hundred years to come ? 

Who’ll press for gold the crowded street, 

A hundred years to come? 

Who’ll tread yon aisle with willing feet, 

A hundred years to come? 

Pale trembling age 
And fiery youth, 

And childhood with 
Its brow of truth ; 

The rich, the poor, on land and sea— 
Where will the mighty millions be, 

A hundred years to come ? 

We all within our graves will sleep, 

A hundred years to come; 

No living soul for us will weep, 

A hundred years to come; 

And others then 
Our lands will till, 

And other men 
Our homes will fill, 

And other birds will sing as gay, 

And bright the sun shine as to-day, 

A hundred years to come. 

Hiram Dodd Spencer. 


Losses. 

Upon the white sea sand 
There sat a pilgrim band, 

Telling the losses that their lives had 
known, 


While evening waned away 
From breezy cliff and bay, 

And the strong tides went out with weary 
moan. 

One spake with quivering lip, 

Of a fair freighted ship, 

With all his household to the deep gone 
down; 

But one had wilder woe— 

For a fair face, long ago, 

Lost in the darker depths of a great town. 

There were who mourned their youth 
With a most loving ruth, 

For its brave hopes and memories ever 
green ; 

And one upon the West 
Turned an eye that would not rest 
For far-off" hills whereon its joys had been. 

Some talked of vanished gold, 

Some of proud honors told, 

Some spake of friends who were their trust 
no more, 

And one of a green grave 
Beside a foreign wave, 

That made him sit so lonely on the shore. 

But when their tales were done, 

There spake among them one, 

A stranger, seeming from all sorrow free: 

“ Sad losses ye have met, 

But mine is heavier yet, 

For a believing heart is gone from me.” 

“Alas,” these pilgrims said, 

“ For the living and the dead— 

For fortune’s cruelty, for love’s sure cross, 
For the wrecks of land and sea ! 

But, however it came to thee, 

Thine, stranger, is life’s last and heaviest 
loss.” 

Frances Browne. 


The Place to Die. 

How little recks it where men die, 
When once the moment’s past 
In which the dim and glazing eye 
Has looked on earth its last— 
Whether beneath the sculptured urn 
The coffin’d form shall rest, 






THE SCOTT MONUMENT, EDINBURGH 

Showing Princes Street on the right and the celebrated Castle of Edinburgh ciowning the hill on the left. 




































The ruins of Melrose Abbey, near Scott’s home, Abbotsford, are celebrated in his 

“Lay of the Last Minstrel.” 


















MORAL AND DIDACTIC POETRY 


701 


Or, in its nakedness, return 
Back to its mother’s breast! 

Death is a common friend or foe, 

As different men may hold, 

And at its summons each must go, 
The timid and the bold ; 

But when the spirit, free and warm, 
Deserts it, as it must, 

What matter where the lifeless form 
Dissolves again to dust? 

The soldier falls ’mid corses piled 
Upon the battle plain, 

Where reinless war-steeds gallop wild 
Above the gory slain; 

But though his corse be grim to see, 
Hoof-trampled on the sod, 

What recks it when the spirit free 
Has soar’d aloft to God! 

The coward’s dying eye may close 
Upon his downy bed, 

And softest hands his limbs compose, 
Or garments o’er him spread ; 

But, ye who shun the bloody fray 
Where fall the mangled brave, 

Go strip his coffin-lid away, 

And see him in his grave! 

’Twere sweet indeed to close our eyes 
With those we cherish near, 

And, wafted upward by their sighs, 
Soar to some calmer sphere; 

But whether on the scaffold high, 

Or in the battle’s van, 

The fittest place where man can die 
Is where he dies for man. 

Michael Joseph Barry. 

After Death in Arabia. 

He who died at Azan sends 
This to comfort all his friends. 

Faithful friends ! It lies, I know, 

Pale and white and cold as snow; 

And ye say, “Abdullah’s dead!” 
Weeping at the feet and head. 

I can see your falling tears, 

I can hear your sighs and prayers; 

Yet I smile, and whisper this: 

“ I am not the thing you kiss; 

Cease your tears, and let it lie; 

It was mine, it is not I.” 


Sweet friends! what the women lave 
For its last bed of the grave 
Is a hut which I am quitting, 

Is a garment no more fitting, 

Is a cage, from which at last, 

Like a hawk, my soul hath pass’d. 

Love the inmate, not the room—■ 

The wearer, not the garb—the plume 
Of the falcon, not the bars, 

Which kept him from the splendid stars. 

Loving friends! Be wise, and dry 
Straightway every weeping eye; 

What ye lift upon the bier 
Is not worth a wistful tear; 

’Tis an empty sea-shell—one 
Out of which the pearl has gone; 

The shell is broken—it lies there; 

The pearl, the all, the soul, is here. 

’Tis an earthen jar, whose lid 
Allah seal’d the while it hid 
That treasure of his treasury, 

A mind that loved him ; let it lie! 

Let the shard be earth’s once more, 

Since the gold shines in his store! 

Allah glorious ! Allah good! 

Now thv world is understood; 

Now the long, long wonder ends! 

Yet ye weep, my erring friends, 

While the man whom ye call dead, 

In unspoken bliss, instead, 

Lives and loves you ; lost, ’tis true, 

By such light as shines for you; 

But in the light ye cannot see 
Of unfulfill’d felicity— 

In enlarging paradise— 

Lives a life that never dies. 

Farewell, friends! Yet not farewell; 
Where T am, ye too shall dwell. 

I am gone before your face 
A moment’s time, a little space; 

When ye come where I have stepped, 

Ye will wonder why ye wept; 

Ye will know, by wise love taught, 

That here is all, and there is naught. 
Weep a while, if ye are fain— 

Sunshine still must follow rain ; 

Only not at death—for death, 

Now I know, is that first breath 
Which our souls draw when we enter 
Life which is of all life centre. 








702 


FIRESIDE ENCYCLOPAEDIA OF POETRY. 


Be ye certain all seems love, 

View’d from Allah’s throne above; 

Be ye stout of heart, and come 
Bravely onward to your home! 

La Allah ilia Allah! yea ! 

Thou Love divine I Thou Love alway! 

He that died at Azan gave 
This to those who made his grave. 

Edwin Arnold. 


10 VlCTIS. 

I SING the hymn of the conquered, who 
fell in the battle of life,— 

The hymn of the wounded, the beaten, who 
died overwhelmed in the strife; 

Not the jubilant song of the victors, for 
whom the resounding acclaim 
Of nations was lifted in chorus, whose 
brows wore the chaplet of fame, 
But the hymn of the low and the humble, 
the weary, the broken in heart, 
Who strove and who failed, acting bravely 
a silent and desperate part; 

Whose youth bore no flower on its branches, 
whose hopes burned in ashes away, 
From whose hands slipped the prize they 
had grasped at, who stood at the 
dying of day 

With the wreck of their life all around 
them, unpitied, unheeded, alone, 
With death swooping down o’er their fail¬ 
ure, and all but their faith over¬ 
thrown. 

While the voice of the world shouts its cho¬ 
rus,—its psean for those who have 
won; 

While the trumpet is sounding triumphant, 
and high to the breeze and the sun 
Glad banners are waving, hands clapping, 
and hurrying feet 

Thronging after the laurel-crowned victors, 
I stand on the field of defeat, 

In the shadow, with those who are fallen, 
and wounded, and dying, and there 
Chant a requiem low, place my hand on 
their pain-knotted brows, breathe a 
prayer, 

Hold the hand that is helpless, and whis¬ 
per—“ They only the victory win, 


“ Who have fought the good fight and have 
vanquished the demon that tempts 
us within ; 

“ Who have held to their faith unseduced 
by the prize that the world holds on 
high; 

“ Who have dared for a high cause to suf¬ 
fer, resist, fight—if need be to die.” 

Speak, History! who are Life’s victors? 

Unroll thy long annals, and say 
Are they those whom the world called the 
victors—who won the success of a 
day ? 

The martyrs or Nero? The Spartans who 
fell at Thermopylae’s tryst, 

Or the Persians and Xerxes? Ilis judges 
or Socrates? Pilate or Christ? 

William Wetmore Story. 

Eonnf.t: To Prince Henry. 

God gives not Kings the style of gods in 
vain, 

For on the throne his sceptre do they sway; 
And as their subjects ought them to obey, 
So Kings should fear and serve their God 
again. 

If then ye would enjoy a happy reign, 
Observe the statutes of our heavenly King, 
And from his law make all your law to 
spring. 

If his Lieutenant here you would remain, 
Reward the just, be steadfast, trueand plain; 
Repress tlie proud, maintaining aye the 
right; 

Walk always so as ever in his sight, 

Who guards the godly, plaguing the pro¬ 
fane ; 

And so shall ye in princely virtues shine, 
Resembling right your mighty King divine. 

James I. of England. 

The Living Lost. 

Matron ! the children of whose love, 
Each to his grave, in youth have passed; 
And now the mould is heaped above 
The dearest and the last! 

Bride! who dost wear the widow’s veil 
Before the wedding flowers are pale! 

Ye deem the human heart endures 
No deeper, bitterer grief than yours. 








703 


MORAL AND DIDACTIC POETRY. 


i T et there are pangs of keener woe, 

Of which the sufferers never speak; 


Nor to the world’s cold pity show 
The tears that scald the cheek, 

Wrung from their eyelids by the shame 
And guilt of those they shrink to name, 
Whom once they loved with cheerful will, 
And love, though fallen and branded, still. 

Weep, ye who sorrow for the dead, 

Thus breaking hearts their pain relieve; 
And reverenced are the tears ye shed, 

And honored ye who grieve. 

The praise of those who sleep in earth, 
The pleasant memory of their worth, 

The hope to meet when life is past 
Shall heal the tortured mind at last. 

But ve, who for the living lost 
That agony in secret hear, 

Who shall with soothing words accost 
The strength of your despair? 

Grief for your sake is scorn for them 
Whom ye lament and all condemn ; 

And o’er the world of spirits lies 
A gloom from which ye turn your eyes. 

William Cullen Bryant. 

One by One. 

One by one the sands are flowing, 

One by one the moments fall; 

Some are coming, some are going ; 

Do not strive to grasp them all. 

One by one thy duties wait thee, 

Let thy whole strength go to each ; 

Let no future dreams elate thee, 

Learn thou first what these can teach. 

One by one (bright gifts from Heaven) 
Joys are sent thee here below; 

Take them readily when given, 

Ready too to let them go. 

One by one thy griefs shall meet thee, 

Do not fear an armed band; 

One will fade as others greet thee; 
Shadows passing through the land. 

Do not look at life’s long sorrow ; 

See how small each moment’s pain ; 
God will help thee for to-morrow, 

So each day begin again. 


Every hour that fleets so slowly 
Has its task to do or bear; 

Luminous the crown, and holy, 

When each gem is set with care. 

Do not linger with regretting, 

Or for passing hours despond; 

Nor, the daily toil forgetting, 

Look too eagerly beyond. 

Hours are golden links, God’s token 
Reaching heaven; but one by one 

Take them, lest the chain be broken 
Ere the pilgrimage be done. 

Adelaide Anne Procter. 

Between the Lights. 

A LITTLE pause in life—while daylight lin¬ 
gers 

Between the sunset and the pale moon- 
rise, 

When daily labor slips from weary fingers, 

And calm, gray shadows veil the aching 
eyes. 

Old perfumes wander back from fields of 
clover, 

Seen in the light of stars that long have 
set; 

Beloved ones, whose earthly toil is over, 

Draw near as if they lived among us yet. 

Old voices call me—through the dusk re¬ 
turning 

I hear the echo of departed feet; 

And then I ask with vain and troubled 
yearning, 

“ What is the charm which makes old 
things so sweet?” 

“ Must the old joys be evermore withholden ? 

Even their memory keeps me pure and . 
true; 

And yet from our Jerusalem the golden 

God speaketli, saying, “ I make all things 
new.” 

“ Father,” I cry, “ the old must still be 
nearer; 

Stifle my love or give me back the past; 

Give me the fair old fields, whose paths are 
dearer 

ThanallThyshiningstreets and mansions 
vast.” 








704 


FIRESIDE ENCYCLOPAEDIA OF POETRY. 


Peace! peace! the Lord of earth and hea¬ 
ven knoweth 

The human soul in all its heat and strife; 

Out of His throne no stream of Lethe flow- 
eth, 

But the pure river of eternal life. 

He giveth life, ay, life in all its sweetness; 

Old loves, old sunny scenes will He re¬ 
store ; 

Only the curse of sin and incompleteness 

Shall vex thy soul and taint thine earth 
no more. 

Serve Him in daily toil and holy living, 

And Faith shall lift thee to His sunlit 
heights; 

Then shall a psalm of gladness and thanks¬ 
giving 

Fill the calm hour that comes between 
the lights. 

Author Unknown. 

A Doubting Heart. 

Where are the swallows fled? 

Frozen and dead, 

Perchance upon some bleak and stormy 
shore. 

0 doubting heart! 

Far over purple seas, 

They wait, in sunny ease, 

The balmy southern breeze, 

To bring them to their northern homes 
once more. 

Why must the flowers die ? 

Prison’d they lie 

In the cold tomb, heedless of tears or 
rain. 

O doubting heart! 

They only sleep below 
The soft white ermine snow, 

While winter winds shall blow, 

To breathe and smile upon you soon 
again. 

The sun has hid its rays 

These many days: 

Will dreary hours never leave the earth? 

O doubting heart! 


The stormy clouds on high 
Veil the same sunny sky, 

That soon (for spring is nigh) 

Shall wake the summer into golden mirth. 

Fair hope is dead, and light 
Is quench’d in night. 

What sound can break the silence of de¬ 
spair ? 

O doubting heart! 

Thy sky is overcast, 

Yet stars shall rise at last, 

Brighter for darkness past, 

And angels’ silver voices stir the air. 

Adelaide Anne Procter. 


Tiie Neglected Call. 

When the fields were white with harvest, 
and the laborers were few, 

Heard I thus a voice within me, “ Here is 
work for thee to do ; 

Come thou up and help the reapers, I will 
show thee now r the way, 

Come and help them bear the burden, and 
the toiling of the day.” 

“ For a more convenient season,” thus I 
answered, “ will I wait,” 

And the voice reproving murmur’d, “ Has¬ 
ten, ere it be too late.” 

Yet I heeded not the utterance, listening 
to lo! here—lo ! there— 

I lost sight of all the reapers in whose 
work I would not share; 

Follow’d after strange devices—bow’d my 
heart to gods of stone, 

Till like Ephraim join’d to idols, God well- 
nigh left me alone; 

But the angel of His patience follow'd on 
my erring track, 

Setting here and there a landmark, where¬ 
withal to guide me back. 

Onward yet I went, and onward, till there 
met me on the way 

A poor prodigal returning/ who, like me, 
had gone astray, 

And his faith was strong and earnest that 
a father’s house would be 

Safest shelter from temptation for such 
sinful ones as he. 







MORAL AND DIDACTIC POETRY. 


705 


“ .Read the lesson,’’ said th'e angel, “ take 
the warning and repent;” 

But the wily Tempter queried, “ Ere thy 
substance be unspent? 

“Hast thou need to toil and labor? art 
thou fitted for the work ? 

Many a hidden stone to bruise thee in the 
harvest-field doth lurk; 

There are others call’d beside thee, and 
perchance the voice may be 

But thy own delusive fancy, which thou 
hearest calling thee— 

There is time enough before thee, all thy 
footsteps to retrace.” 

Then I yielded to the Tempter, and the 
angel veil’d her face. 

Pleasure beckon’d in the distance, and her 
siren song was sweet, 

“ Through a thornless path of flowers 
gently I will guide thy feet. 

Youth is as a rapid river, gliding noiseless¬ 
ly away, 

Earth is but a pleasant garden; cull its 
roses whilst thou may; 

Press the juice from purple clusters, fill 
life’s chalice with the wine, 

Taste the fairest fruits which tempt thee, 
all its richest fruits are thine.” 

Ah! the path was smooth and easy, but 
a snare was set therein, 

And the feet were oft entangled in the 
fearful mesh of sin, 

And the canker-worm was hidden in the 
rose-leaf folded up, 

And the sparkling wine of pleasure was a 
fatal Circean cup; 

All its fruits were Dead Sea apples, tempt¬ 
ing only to the sight, 

Fair yet fill’d with dust and ashes—beau¬ 
tiful, but touch’d with blight. 

“ 0 my Father,” cried I inly, “ Thou hast 
striven—I have will’d; 

Now the mission of the angel of Thy 
patience is fulfill’d; 

I have tasted earthly pleasures, yet my 
soul is craving food ; 

Let the summons Thou hast given to Thy 
harvest be renew’d; 

45 


I am ready now to labor—wilt thou call me 
once again ? 

I will join thy willing reapers as they 
garner up the grain.” 

But the still small voice within me, earnest 
in its truth and deep, 

Answer’d my awaken’d conscience, “ As 
thou sowest thou shalt reap ; 

God is just, and retribution follows each 
neglected call; 

Thou hadst thy appointed duty taught thee 
by the Lord of all; 

Thou wert chosen, but another fill’d the 
place assigned thee, 

Henceforth in my field of labor thou 
mayst but a gleaner be. 

“ But a work is still before thee—see thou 
linger not again; 

Separate the chaff thou gleanest, beat it 
from among the grain ; 

Follow after these my reapers let thine 
eyes be on the field, 

Gather up the precious handfuls their 
abundant wheat-sheaves yield; 

Go not hence to glean, but tarry from the 
morning until night; 

Be thou faithful, thou mayst yet find favor 
in thy Master’s sight.” 

Hannah Lloyd Neale. 


The Lot of Thousands. 

When hope lies dead within the heart, 

By secret sorrow close conceal’d, 

We shrink lest looks or words impart 
What must not be reveal’d. 

’Tis hard to smile when one would weep: 
To speak when one would silent be; 

To wake when one should wish to sleep, 
And wake to agony. 

Yet such the lot by thousands cast 
Who wander in this world of care, 

And bend beneath the bitter blast, 

To save them from despair. 

But Nature waits her guests to greet, 
Where disappointment cannot come; 

And Time guides with unerring feet 
The weary wanderers home. 

Anne Hunter. 






706 


FIRESIDE ENCYCLOPAEDIA OF POETRY. 


Influence of tine on Grief. 

O Time, who know’st a lenient hand to 
lay 

Softest on sorrow’s wound, and slowly 
thence 

(Lulling to sad repose the weary sense) 

The faint pang stealest unperceived 
away ; 

On thee I rest my only hope at last, 

And think when thou hast dried the 
bitter tear 

That flow's in vain o’er all my soul held 
dear, 

I may look back on every sorrow' past, 

And meet life’s peaceful evening w'ith a 
smile, 

As some lone bird, at day’s departing 
hour, 

Sings in the sunbeam, of the transient 
shower 

Forgetful, though its wings are w r et the 
w'hile. 

Yet ah! how much must that poor heart 
endure, 

Which hopes from thee, and thee alone, 
a cure! 

William Lisle Bowles. 


The Chameleon. 

Opt has it been my lot to mark 
A proud, conceited, talking spark, 

With eyes that hardly served at most 
To guard their master ’gainst a post, 

Yet round the world the blade has been 
To see whatever could be seen. 

Returning from his finish’d tour 
Grown ten times perter than before; 
Whatever w T ord you chance to drop, 

The travell’d fool your mouth will stop; 
“Sir, if my judgment you’ll allow, 

I’ve seen—and sure I ought to know,” 

So begs you’d pay a due submission, 

And acquiesce in his decision. 

Two travellers of such a cast, 

As o’er Arabia’s wilds they pass’d, 

And on their way, in friendly chat, 

Now talk’d of this, and then of that, 
Discoursed a w'hile, ’mongst other matter, 
Of the chameleon’s form and nature. 


“ A stranger animal,” cries one, 

“ Sure never lived beneath the sun. 

A lizard’s body, lean and long, 

A fish’s head, a serpent’s tongue, 

Its foot with triple claw disjoin’d, 

And what a length of tail behind! 

How slow' its pace, and then its hue,— 
Who ever saw so fine a blue ?” 

“ Hold, there!” the other quick replies; 

“ ’Tis green, —I saw it with these eyes, 

As late w'ith open mouth it lay, 

And warm’d it in the sunny ray; 

Stretch’d at its ease the beast I view’d, 
And saw it eat the air for food.” 

“ I’ve seen it, sir, as well as you, 

And must again affirm it blue; 

At leisure I the beast survey’d, 

Extended in the cooling shade.” 

“ ’Tis green, ’tis green, sir, I assure ye.” 

“ Green!” cries the other in a fury,— 
“Why, sir, d’ye think I’ve lost my eyes?” 
“ ’Twere no great loss,” the friend replies, 
“ For if they alw'ays serve you thus, 

You’ll find them of but little use.” 

So high at last the contest rose, 

From w r ords they almost came to blows, 
When luckily came by a third,— 

To him the question they referr’d, 

And begg’d he’d tell ’em, if he knew, 
Whether the thing w'as green or blue. 
“Sirs,” cries the umpire, “cease your 
pother! 

The creature’s neither one nor t’other. - 
I caught the animal last night, 

And view’d it o’er by candlelight; 

I mark’d it w r ell—’tw'as black as jet; 

You stare,—but, sirs, I’ve got it yet, 

And can produce it.” “ Pray, sir, do : 

I’ll lay my life the thing is blue.” 

“ And I’ll be sw'orn, that w'hen you’ve seen 
The reptile, you’ll pronounce him green.” 

“ Well then, at once to ease the doubt,” 
Replies the man, “ I’ll turn him out, 

And when before your eyes I’ve set him, 

If you don’t find him black, I’ll eat him.” 
He said, then full before their sight 
Produced the beast, and lo !—’twas w'hite. 

Both stared; the man look’d w'ondrous 
wise— 

“ My children,” Mie chameleon cries 










MORAL AND DIDACTIC POETRY. 


707 


(Tlien first the creature found a tongue), 

“ You all are right, and all are wrong; 

When next you talk of what you view, 

Think others see as well as you ; 

Nor wonder, if you find that none 

Prefers your eyesight to his own.” 

James Merrick. 

I Lay in Sorrow, Deep Dis¬ 
tressed. 

I lay in sorrow, deep distress’d; 

My grief a proud man heard; 

His looks were cold, he gave me gold, 
But not a kindly word. 

My sorrow pass’d,— I paid him back 
The gold he gave to me ; 

Then stood erect and spoke my thanks, 
And bless’d his Charity. 

T lay in want, in grief and pain : 

A poor man pass’d my way ; 

He bound my head, he gave me bread, 
He watch’d me night and day. 

How shall I pay him back again 
For all he did to me? 

Oh, gold is great, but greater far 
Is heavenly Sympathy ! 

Chari.es Mackay. 

Stanzas. 

When lovely woman stoops to folly, 
And finds too late that men betray, 

What charm can soothe her melancholy, 
What art can wash her guilt away? 

The only art her guilt to cover, 

To hide her shame from every eye, 

To give repentance to her lover 
And wring his bosom, is—to die. 

Oliver Goldsmith. 

The Spider and the Fly.- An 
Apologue. 

A New Version of an Old Story. 

“ Will you walk into my parlor?” said the 
Spider to the Fly. 

“ ’Tis the prettiest little parlor that ever you 
did spy; 

The way into my parlor is up a winding 
stair, 


And I’ve many curious things to show 
when you are there,” 

“Oh no, no,” said the little Fly, “to ask 
me is in vain, 

For who goes up your winding stair can 
ne’er come down again.” 

“I’m sure you must be weary, dear, with 
soaring up so high; 

Will you rest upon my little bed?” said the 
Spider to the Fly. 

“ There are pretty curtains drawn around; 
the sheets are fine and thin, 

And if you like to rest a while, I’ll snugly 
tuck you in!” 

“Oh, no, no,” said the little Fly, “for I’ve 
often heard it said, 

They never, never wake again, who sleep 
upon your bed!” 

Said the cunning Spider to the Fly, “ Dear 
friend, what can I do 

To prove the warm affection I’ve always 
felt for you? 

I have within my pantry good store of all 
that’s nice; 

I’m sure you’re very welcome—will you 
please to take a slice?” 

“Oh no, no,” said the little Fly, “ kind sir, 
that cannot be; 

I’ve heard what’s in your pantry, and T do 
not wish to see!” 

“ Sweet creature!” said the Spider, “you’re 
witty and you’re wise, 

How handsome are vour gauzy wings, how 
brilliant are your eyes! 

I’ve a little looking-glass upon my parlor 
shelf, 

If you’ll step in one moment, dear, you 
shall behold yourself.” 

“ I thank you, gentle sir,” she said, “ for 
what you’re pleased to say, 

And bidding you good morning now, I’ll 
call another day.” 

The Spider turned him round about, and 
went into his den, 

For well he knew the silly Fly would soon 
come back again: 

So he wove a subtle web, in a little corner 
sly, 

And set his table ready, to dine upon the 
Fly. 





70S 


FIRESIDE ENCYCLOPEDIA OF POETRY. 


Then he came out to his floor again, and 
merrily did sing, 

“Come hither, hither, pretty Fly, with the 
pearl and silver wing; 

Your robes are green and purple—there’s a 
crest upon your head; 

Your eyes are like the diamond bright, but 
mine are dull as lead !” 

Alas, alas! how very soon this silly little 

Fly, 

Hearing his wily, flattering words, came 
slowly flitting by ; 

With buzzing wings she hung aloft, then 
near and nearer drew, 

Thinking only of her brilliant eyes, and 
green and purple hue— 

Thinking only of her crested head—poor 
foolish thing ! At last, 

IJp jumped the cunning Spider, and fiercely 
held her fast. 

He dragged her up his winding stair, into 
his dismal den, 

Within his little parlor—but she ne’er 
came out again! 

And now, dear little children, who may 
this story read, 

To idle, silly, flattering words, I pray you 
ne’er give heed; 

Unto an evil counsellor, close heart and 
ear and eye, 

And take a lesson from this tale, of the 
Spider and the Fly. 

Mary Howitt. 

If I had Thought Thou Couldst 
ha ye Died. 

If I had thought thou couldst have died, 

I might not weep for thee ; 

But I forgot, when by thy side, 

That thou couldst mortal be! 

It never through my mind had passed, 

The time would e’er be o’er,— 

And I on thee should look my last, 

And thou shouldst smile no more! 

And still upon that face I look, 

And think ’twill smile agaiu ; 

And still the thought I will not brook 
That I must look in vain ! 

But when I speak, thou dost not say 
What thou ne’er left’st unsaid ; 


And now 1 feel, as well 1 may, 

Sweet Mary! thou art dead I 

If thou wouldststay, e’en as thou art, 

All cold and all serene,— 

I still might press thy silent heart, 

And where thy smiles have been ! 
While e’en thy chill, bleak corse I have, 
Thou seemest still mine own ; 

But then I lay thee in thy grave,— 

And I am now alone! 

I do not think, where’er thou art, 

Thou hast forgotten me; 

And I, perhaps, may soothe this heart, 

In thinking too of thee: 

Yet there was round thee such a dawn 
Of light ne’er seen before,— 

As fancy never could have drawn, 

And never can restore! 

Ciiaiu.es Wolfe. 

A Dirge. 

Calm on the spirit of thy God, 

Fair spirit! rest thee now! 

E’en while with ours thy footsteps trod 
His seal was on thy brow. 

Dust, to its narrow house beneath ! 

Soul, to its place on high ! 

They that have seen thy look in death 
No more may fear to die! 

Felcia Dorothea Hemans. 

How to Deal with Common na¬ 
tures. 

Tender-handed stroke a nettle. 

And it stings you for your pains; 
Grasp it like a man of mettle, 

And it soft as silk remains. 

’Tis the same with common natures: 

Use them kindly, they rebel; 

But be rough as nutmeg-graters, 

And the rogues obey you well. 

Aaron Hill. 

Epitaph on an Infant. 

Ere sin could blight or sorrow fade, 
Death came with friendly care; 

The opening bud to heaven conveyed, 
And bade it blossom there. 

Samuel Taylor Coleridge. 






MORAL AND DIDACTIC POETRY. 


709 


The Complaints of the Poor. 

“ And wherefore do the poor complain?” 
The rich man ask’d of me : 

“ Come, walk abroad with me,” I said, 

“ And I will answer thee.” 

Twas evening, and the frozen streets 
Were cheerless to behold; 

And we were wrapp’d and coated well, 
And yet we were a-cold. 

We met an old, bareheaded man, 

His locks were thin and white ; 

I ask’d him what he did abroad 
In that cold winter’s night. 

The cold was keen, indeed, he said— 

But at home no fire had lie; 

And therefore he had come abroad 
To ask for charity. 

We met a young barefooted child, 

And she begg’d loud and bold; 

I asked her what she did abroad 
When the wind it blew so cold. 

She said her father was at home, 

And he lay sick abed; 

And therefore was it she was sent 
Abroad to beg for bread. 

We saw a woman sitting down 
Upon a stone to rest; 

She had a baby at her back, 

A nd another at her breast. 

I ask’d her why she loiter’d there, 

When the night-wind was so chill; 

She turn’d her head, and bade the child 
That scream’d behind, be still— 

Then told us that her husband served, 

A soldier, far away; 

And therefore to her parish she 
Was begging back her way. 

We met a girl, her dress w r as loose 
And sunken was her eye, 

Who with a wanton’s hollow voice 
Address’d the passers-by; 

1 ask’d her what there was in guilt 
That could her heart allure 

To shame, disease, and late remorse; 

!'fhe -answer’d she was poor. 


I turn’d me to the rich man then, 

For silently stood he ; 

“ You ask’d me why the poor complain; 
And these have answer’d thee!” 

Robert Southey. 


The Lady’s Dream. 

The lady lay in her bed, 

Her couch so warm and soft, 

But her sleep was restless and broken 
still; 

For, turning often and oft 
From side to side, she mutter'd and 
moan’d, 

And toss’d her arms aloft. 

At last she started up, 

And gazed on the vacant air 
With a look of awe, as if she saw 
Some dreadful phantom there— 

And then in the pillow she buried her face 
From visions ill to bear. 

The very curtain shook, 

Her terror was so extreme, 

And the light that fell on the broider’d 
quilt 

Kept a tremulous gleam ; 

And her voice was hollow, and shook as 
she cried, 

“ Oh me! that awful dream! 

“ That weary, weary walk 
In the churchyard’s dismal ground! 

And those horrible things, with shady 
wings, 

That came and flitted round,— 

Death, death, and nothing but death, 

In every sight and sound! 

“And oh ! those maidens young 
Who wrought in that dreary room, 

With figures drooping and spectres thin, 
And cheeks without a bloom ;— 

And the voice that cried, ‘ For the pomp 
of pride 

We haste to an early tomb! 

“ ‘ For the pomp and pleasures of pride 
We toil like the African slaves, 

And only to earn a home at last 
Where yonder cypress waves;’— 

And then it pointed—I never saw 
A ground so full of gravesl 







710 


FIRESIDE ENCYCLOPAEDIA OF POETRY. 


“And still the coffins came, 

With their sorrowful trains and slow; 
Coffin after coffin still, 

A sad and sickening show; 

From grief exempt, I never had dreamt 
Of such a world of Woe! 

‘ Of the hearts that daily break, 

Of the tears that hourly fall, 

Of the many, many troubles of life, 

That grieve this earthly ball— 

Disease and Hunger, Pain and Want, 

But now I dream of them all! 

“ For the blind and the cripple were there, 
And the babe that pined for bread, 

And the houseless man, and the widow poor, 
Who begg’d—to bury the dead! 

The naked, alas! that I might have clad, 
The famish’d I might have fed ! 

“ The sorrow I might have soothed, 

And the unregarded tears; 

For many a thronging shape was there, 
From long-forgotten years, 

Ay, even the poor rejected Moor, 

Who raised my childish fears! 

“ Each pleading look, that long ago 
I scann’d with a heedless eye; 

Each face was gazing as plainly there, 

As when I pass’d it by; 

Woe, woe for me if the past should be 
Thus present when I die! 

“No need of sulphurous lake, 

No need of fiery coal, 

But only that crowd of humankind 
Who wanted pity and dole— 

In everlasting retrospect— 

Will wring my sinful soul! 

“ Alas! I have walk’d through life 
| Too heedless where I trod ; 

Nay, helping to trample my fellow-worm, 
And fill the burial sod— 

Forgetting that even the sparrow falls 
Not unmark’d of God ! 

“ I drank the richest draughts, 

And ate whatever is good— 

Fish, and flesh, and fowl, and fruit, 
Supplied my hungry mood; 

But I never remember’d the wretched ones 
That starvedbr want of food! 


| “ I dress’d as the noble dress, 

In cloth of silver and gold, 

With silk, and satin, and costly furs, 

In many an ample fold; 

But I never remember’d the naked limbs, 
That froze with winter’s cold. 

“ The wounds I might have heal’d ! 

The human sorrow and smart! 

And yet it never was in my soul 
To play so ill a part: 

But evil is wrought by want of Thought, 
As well as want of Heart!” 

She clasp’d her fervent hands, 

And the tears began to stream; 

Large, and bitter, and fast they fell, 
Remorse w r as so extreme; 

And yet, oh yet, that many a Dame 
AA r ould dream the Lady’s Dream ! 

Thomas Hoorx 

Gaffer Gray. 

Ho ! why dost thou shiver and shake, 
Gaffer Gray ? 

And why does thy nose look so blue f 
“ ’Tis the weather that’s cold, 

’Tis I’m grown very old, 

And my doublet is not very new, 
Well-a-day!” 

Then line thy worn doublet with ale, 
Gaffer Gray; 

And warm thy old heart with a glass. 

“ Nay, but credit I’ve none, 

And my money’s all gone; 

Then say how may that come to pass ? 
Well-a-day!” 

Hie away to the house on the brow, 

Gaffer Gray, ' 

And knock at the jolly priest’s door. 

“ The priest often preaches 
Against worldly riches, 

But ne’er gives a mite to the poor, 
Well-a-day I” 

The lawyer lives under the hill, 

Gaffer Gray; 

Warmly fenced both in back and in front. 
“ He will fasten his locks, 

And will threaten the stocks 
Should he evermore find me in want, 
Well-a-day!” 









MORAL AND DIDACTIC POETRY. 


711 


The squire has fat beeves and brown ale, 
Gaffer Gray; 

And the season will welcome you there. 
“ His fat beeves and his beer, 

And his merry new year, 

Are all for the flush and the fair, 
Well-a-day!” 

My keg is but low, I confess, 

Gaffer Gray; 

What then? "While it lasts, man, we’ll 
live. 

“ The poor man alone, 

W T hen he hears the poor moan, 

Of his morsel a morsel will give, 
Well-a-day!” 

Thomas Holcroft. 


The Song of the Shirt. 

With fingers weary and worn, 

With eyelids heavy and red, 

A woman sat, in unwomanly rags, 
Plying her needle and thread— 

Stitch ! stitch ! stitch ! 

In poverty, hunger, and dirt, 

And still with a voice of dolorous pitch 
She sang the “Song of the Shirt!” 

“Work! work! work! 

While the cock is crowing aloof! 

And work—-work—work, 

Till the stars shine through the roof! 
It's oh ! to be a slave 
Along with the barbarous Turk, 
Where woman has never a soul to save, 
If this is Christian work ! 

“ Work—work—work! 

Till the brain begins to swim ; 
Work—work—work ! 

Till the eyes are heavy and dim ! 
Seam, and gusset, and band, 

Band, and gusset, and seam, 

Till over the buttons I fall asleep, 

And sew them on in a dream ! 

“0 men, with sisters dear! 

O men, with mothers and wives ! 

It is not linen you’re wearing out, 

But human creatures’ lives ! 

Stitch—stitch—stitch, 

In poverty, hunger, and dirt. 


Sewing at once with a double thread, 

A shroud as well as a shirt! 

“ But why do I talk of Death, 

That Phantom of grisly bone ? 

I hardly fear his terrible shape, 

It seems so like my own— 

It seems so like my own, 

Because of the fast I keep : 

0 God ! that bread should be so dear, 

And flesh and blood so cheap ! 

“ Work—work—work ! 

My labor never flags ; 

And what are its wages ? A bed of straw, 
A crust of bread, and rags. 

A shatter’d roof—and this naked floor— 

A table—a broken chair—• 

And a wall so blank, my shadow I thank 
For sometimes falling there! 

“ Work—work—work ! 

From weary chime to chime, 

W ork—work—work— 

As prisoners work for crime ! 

Band, and gusset, and seam, 

Seam, and gusset, and band, 

Till the heart is sick, and the brain be¬ 
numb’d, 

As well as the weary hand. 

“ Work—work—work 
In the dull December light, 

And work—work—work 

When the weather is warm and bright- ■ 
While underneath the eaves, 

The brooding swallows cling, 

As if to show me their sunny backs 
And twit me with the spring. 

“ Oh but to breathe the breath 
Of the cowslip and primrose sweet— 
With the sky above my head, 

And the grass beneath my feet; 

For only one short hour 
To feel as I used to feel, 

Before I knew the woes of want, 

And the walk that costs a meal! 

“ Oh ! but for one short hour ! 

A respite however brief! 

No blessed leisure for love or hope, 

But only time for grief! 









712 


FIRESIDE ENCYCLOPEDIA OF POETRY. 


A little weeping would ease my heart, 

But in their briny bed 

My tears must stop, for every drop 
Hinders needle and thread !” 

With fingers weary and worn, 

With eyelids heavy and red, 

A woman sat in unwomanly rags, 

Plying her needle and thread— 

Stitch ! stitch ! stitch ! 

In poverty, hunger, and dirt, 

And still with a voice of dolorous pitch,— 

Would that its tone could reach the 
rich!— 

She sang this “ Song of the Shirt.” 

Thomas Hood. 

The Beggar's Petition. 

Pity the sorrows of a poor old man, 
Whose trembling limbs have borne him 
to your door, 

Whose days are dwindled to the shortest 
span; 

Oh! give relief, and Heaven will bless 
your store. 

These tatter’d clothes my poverty be¬ 
speak, 

These hoary locks proclaim my length¬ 
en’d years, 

And many a furrow in my grief-worn 
cheek 

Has been the channel to a flood of 
tears. 

Yon house, erected on the rising ground, 
With tempting aspect, drew me from my 
road; 

For plenty there a residence has found, 
And grandeur a magnificent abode. 

Hard is the fate of the infirm and poor! 
Here, as I craved a morsel of their 
bread, 

A pamper’d menial drove me from the 
door, 

To seek a shelter in an humbler shed. 

Oh ! take me to your hospitable dome; 
Keen blow’s the wind, and piercing is 
the cold! 

Short is my passage to the friendly tomb, 
For I am poor, and miserably old. 


Should I reveal the sources of my grief, 

If soft humanity e’er touch’d your 
breast, 

Your hands would not withhold the kind 
relief, 

And tears of pity would not be repress’d. 

Heaven sends misfortunes; why should we 
repine ? 

’Tis Heaven has brought me to the state 
you see; 

And your condition may be soon like 
mine, 

The child of sorrow and of misery. 

A little farm was my paternal lot; 

Then, like the lark, I sprightly hail’d 
the morn; 

But, ah! oppression forced me from my cot, 
My cattle died, and blighted was my 
corn. 

My daughter, once the comfort of my age, 
Lured by a villain from her native home, 

Is cast abandon’d on the world’s wide 
stage, 

And doom’d in scanty poverty to roam. 

My tender wife, sweet soother of my care, 
Struck with sad anguish at the stern 
decree, 

Fell, lingering fell, a victim to despair, 
And left the world to wretchedness and 
me. 

Pity the sorrows of a poor old man, 

Whose trembling limbs have borne him 
to your door, 

Whose days are dwindled to the shortest 
span; 

Oh! give relief, and Heaven will bless 
your store. 

Thomas Moss. 

The Vagabonds. 

We are two travellers, Roger and I. 

Roger’s my dog. — Come here, you 
scamp! 

Jump for the gentleman,—mind your eye! 
Over the table, — look out for the 
lamp!— 






MORAL AND DIDACTIC POETRY. 


713 


The rogue is growing a little old; 

Five years we’ve tramp’d through wind 
and weather, 

And slept out doors when nights were 
cold, 

And ate and drank—and starved—to¬ 
gether. 

We’ve learn’d what comfort is, I tell 
you! 

A bed on the floor, a bit of rosin, 

A fire to thaw our thumbs (poor fellow! 
The paw he holds up there has been 
frozen), 

Plenty of catgut for my fiddle 

(This out-door business is bad for 
strings), 

Then a few nice buckwheats hot from the 
griddle, 

And Roger and I set up for kings! 

No, thank you, sir,—I never drink; 

Roger and I are exceedingly moral,— 

Aren’t we, Roger?—see him wink!— 

Well, something hot, then, we won’t 
quarrel. 

He’s thirsty, too—see him nod his head? 
What a pity, sir, that dogs can’t talk!— 

He understands every w r ord that’s said,— 
And he knows good milk from water and 
chalk. 

The truth is, sir, now I reflect, 

I’ve been so sadly given to grog, 

I wonder I’ve not lost the respect 
(Here’s to you, sir !) even of my dog. 

But he sticks by, through thick and thin; 
And this old coat, with its empty pock¬ 
ets, 

Vnd rags that smell of tobacco and gin, 
He’ll follow while he has eyes in his 
sockets. 

There isn’t another creature living 

Would do it, and prove, through every 
disaster, 

So fond, so faithful, and so forgiving 
To such a miserable thankless master! 

No, sir!—see him wag his tail and grin ! 

By George! it makes my old eyes 
water! 

That is, there’s something in this gin 
That chokes a fellow. But no matter! 


We’ll have some music, if you are will¬ 
ing, 

And Roger (hem! what a plague a cough 
is, sir!) 

Shall march a little.—Start, you villain ! 

Stand straight! ’Bout face! Salute your 
officer! 

Put ui) that paw! Dress! Take vour 
rifle! 

(Some dogs have arms, you see!) Now 
hold your 

Cap while the gentlemen give a trifle 

To aid a poor old patriot soldier. 

March! Halt! Now show how the rebel 
shakes 

When he stands up to hear his sen¬ 
tence. 

Now tell how many drams it takes 

To honor a jolly new acquaintance. 

Five yelps, that’s five! he’s mighty know¬ 
ing! 

The night’s before us, fill the glasses! 

Quick, sir! I’m ill,—my brain is going; 

Some brandy,—thank you ; there,—it 
passes! 

Why not reform ? That’s easily said; 

But I’ve gone through such wretched 
treatment, 

Sometimes forgetting the taste of bread, 

And scarce remembering what meat 
meant, 

That my poor stomach’s past reform ; 

And there are times when, mad with 
thinking, 

I’d sell out Heaven for something warm 

To prop a horrible inward sinking. 

Is there a way to forget to think? 

At your age, sir, home, fortune, friends, 

A dear girl’s love,—but I took to 
drink;— 

The same old story; you know how it 
ends. 

If you could have seen these classic fea¬ 
tures,— 

You needn’t laugh, sir; they were not 
then 

Such a burning libel on God’s creatures; 

I was one of your handsome men ! 








714 


FIRESIDE ENCYCLOPEDIA OF POETRY. 


If you had seen her, so fair and young, 
Whose head was happy on this breast! 
If you could have heard the songs I sung 
When the wine went round, you wouldn’t 
have guess’d 

That ever I, sir, should be straying 

From door to door with fiddle and 
dog, 

Ragged and penniless, and playing 
To you to-night for a glass of grog. 

She’s married since, a parson’s wife ; 

’Twas better for her that we should part; 
Better the soberest, prosiest life 
Than a blasted home and a broken 
heart. 

I have seen her? Once: I was weak and 
spent 

On the dusty road; a carriage stopp’d; 
But little she dream’d, as on she went, 
Who kiss’d the coin that her fingers 
dropp’d! 

You’ve set me talking, sir; I’m sorry; 

Tt makes me wild to think of the 
change! 

What do you care for a beggar’s story? 

Is it amusing? you find it strange? 

I had a mother so proud of me! 

’Twas well she died before. Do you 
know 

I f the happy spirits in Heaven can see 
The ruin and wretchedness here below? 

Another glass, and strong, to deaden 
This pain; then Roger and I will start. 

I wonder, has he such a lumpish, leaden, 
Aching thing, in place of a heart? 

He is sad sometimes, and would weep if 
he could, 

No doubt, remembering things that 
were— 

A virtuous kennel, with plenty of food, 
And himself a sober, respectable cur. 

I’m better now; that glass was warming,— 
You rascal! limber your lazy feet! 

We must be fiddling and performing 
For supper and bed, or starve in the 
street.— 

Not a very gay life to lead, you think? 

But soon we shall go where lodgings are 
free, 


And the sleepers need neither victuals nor 
drink;— 

The sooner the better for Roger and me. 

J. T. Trowbridge. 


The Bridge of sighs. 

% 

“ Drowned! drowned !”— Hamlet . 

One more Unfortunate, 
Weary of breath, 

Rashly importunate, 

Gone to her death ! 

Take her up tenderly, 

Lift her with care,— 
Fashion’d so slenderly, 
Young, and so fair ! 

Look at her garments 
Clinging like cerements ; 

Whilst the wave constantly 
Drips from her clothing ; 

Take her up instantly, 
Loving, not loathing.— 

Touch her not scornfully ; 
Think of her mournfully, 
Gently and humanly; 

Not of the stains of her, 

All that remains of her 
Now is pure womanly. 

Make no deep scrutiny 
Into her mutiny 

Rash and undutifnl: 

Past all dishonor, 

Death has left on her 
Only the beautiful. 

Still, for all slips of hers, 

One of Eve’s family— 
Wipe those poor lips of hers, 
Oozing so clammily. 

Loop up her tresses 

Escaped from the comb, 
Her fair auburn tresses ; 
Whilst wonderment guesses 
Where was her home? 

Who was her father ? 

Who was her mother ? 

Had she a sister ? 

1 lad she a brother? 







MORAL AND DIDACTIC POETRY. 


715 


Or was there a dearer one 
Still, and a nearer one 
Yet, than all other? 

Alas ! for the rarity 
Of Christian charity 
Under the sun! 

Oh ! it was pitiful! 

Near a whole city full, 
Home she had none. 

Sisterly, brotherly, 
Fatherly, motherly, 
Feelings had changed: 
Love, by harsh evidence, 
Thrown from its eminence ; 
Even God’s providence 
Seeming estranged. 


Decently,—kindly,— 

Smooth and compose them ; 
And her eyes, close them, 
Staring so blindly! 

Dreadfully staring 
Through muddy impurity, 
As when with the daring 
Last look of despairing 
Fix’d on futurity. 

Perishing gloomily, 

Spurr’d by contumely, 

Cold inhumanity, 

Burning insanity, 

Into her rest.— 

Cross her hands humbly, 

As if praying dumbly, 

Over her breast! 


Where the lamps quiver 
So far in the river, 

With many a light 
From window and casement, 
From garret to basement, 
She stood with amazement, 
Houseless by night. 


Owning her weakness, 

Her evil behavior, 

And leaving, with meekness, 

Her sins to her Saviour! 

Tiiomas Hood. 

Beautiful Snow. 


The bleak wind of March 

Made her tremble and shiver ; 
But not the dark arch, 

Or the black flowing river ; 
Mad from life’s history, 

Glad to death’s mystery 
Swift to be hurl’d— 
Anywhere, anywhere 
Out of the world ! 

In she plunged boldly, 

No matter how coldly 
The rough river ran,— 

Over the brink of it, 

Picture it—think of it, 

Dissolute man ! 

Lave in it, drink of it, 

Then, if you can ! 

Take her up tenderly, 

Lift her with care ; 

Fashion’d so slenderly, 

Young, and so fair ! 

Ere her limbs frigidly 
Stiffen too rigidly, 


Oh ! the snow, the beautiful snow, 

Filling the sky and the earth below ; 

Over the house-tops, over the street, 

Over the heads of the people you meet; 
Dancing, 

Flirting, 

Skimming along, 

Beautiful snow ! it can do nothing wrong. 
Flying to kiss a fair lady’s cheek ; 

Clinging to lips in a frolicsome freak. 
Beautiful snow, from the heavens above, 
Pure as an angel and fickle as love ! 

Oh ! the snow, the beautiful snow ! 

How the flakes gather and laugh as they 
go ! 

Whirling about in its maddening fun, 

It plays in its glee with every one. 
Chasing, 

Laughing, 

Hurrying by, 

It lights up the face and it sparkles the 
eye; 

And even the dogs, with a bark and a 
bound. 

Snap at the crystals that eddy around. 







716 


FIRESIDE ENCYCLOPAEDIA OF POETRY. 


The town is alive, and its heart in a glow 
To welcome the coming of beautiful snow. 

How the wild crowd goes swaying along, 
Hailing each other with humor and song! 
How the gay sledges like meteors flash 
by— 

Bright for a momeut, then lost to the eye, 
Ringing, 

Swinging, 

Dashing they go 

Over the crest of the beautiful snow: 

Snow so pure when it falls from the sky, 
To be trampled in mud by the crowd rush¬ 
ing by: 

To be trampled and track’d by the thou¬ 
sands of feet, 

Till it blends with the filth in the horrible 
street. 

Once I was pure as the snow—but I fell: 
Fell, like the snow-flakes, from heaven— 
to hell: 

Fell, to be tramp’d as the filth of the 
street: 

Fell, to be scoff’d, to be spit on, and beat, 
Pleading, 

Cursing, 

Dreading to die, 

Selling my soul to whoever would buy, 
Dealing in shame for a morsel of bread, 
Hating the living and fearing the dead. 
Merciful God ! have I fallen so low ? 

And yet I was once like this beautiful 
snow! 

Once 1 was fair as the beautiful snow, 
With an eye like its crystals, a heart like 
its glow; 

Once I was loved for my innocent grace— 
Flatter’d and sought for the charm of my 
face. 

Father, 

Mother, 

Sisters all, 

God, and myself, I have lost by my fall. 

I he veriest wretch that goes shivering by 
Will take a wide sweep, lest I wander too 
nigh ; 

For all that is on or about me, I know 
There is nothing that’s pure but the beau¬ 
tiful snow. 


How strange it should be that this beauti¬ 
ful snow 

Should fall on a sinner with nowhere to 
go! 

How strange it would be, when the night 
comes again, 

If the snow and the ice struck my despe¬ 
rate brain! 

Fainting, 

Freezing, 

Dying alone! 

Too wicked for prayer, too weak for my 
moan 

To be heard in the crash of the crazy town, 

Gone mad in their joy at the snow’s com¬ 
ing down ; 

To lie and to die in my terrible woe, 

With a bed and a shroud of the beautiful 
snow! 

John W. Watson. 

The Pauper's Death-Bed 

Tread softly,—bow the head,— 

In reverent silence bow,— 

No passing bell doth toll, 

Yet an immortal soul 
Is passing now. 

Stranger! however great, 

With lowly reverence bow; 

There’s one in that poor shed— 

One by that paltry bed— 

Greater than thou. 

Beneath that beggar’s roof, 

Lo ! Death doth keep his state. 

Enter, no crowds attend ; 

Enter, no guards defend 
This palace-gate. 

That pavement, damp and cold, 

No smiling courtiers tread; 

One silent woman stands, 

Lifting with meagre hands 
A dying head. 

No mingling voices sound,— 

An infant wail alone; 

A sob suppress’d,—again 

That short deep gasp, and then—■ 

The parting groan. 







MORAL AND DIDACTIC POETRY. 


717 


0 change! 0 wondrous change! 

Burst are the prison-bars,— 

This moment there so low, 

So agonized, and now 
Beyond the stars. 

O change! 'stupendous change! 

There lies the soulless clod; 

The sun eternal breaks, 

The new immortal wakes,— 

Wakes with his God. 

Caroline Bowles Southey. 

The Pauperis Drive. 

There’s a grim one-horse hearse in a jolly 
round trot,— 

To the churchyard a pauper is going, I 
wot; * 

The road it is rough, and the hearse has 
no springs; 

And hark to the dirge which the mad 
driver sings: 

Battle his bones over the stones! 

He’s only a pauper whom nobody 
owns! 

Oh, where are the mourners? Alas! there 
are none; 

He has left not a gap in the world, now 
he’s gone,— 

Not a tear in the eye of child, woman, or 
man; 

To the grave with his carcass as fast as you 
can: 

Rattle his bones over the stones ! 

He’s only a pauper whom nobody 
owns! 

What a jolting, and creaking, and splash¬ 
ing, and din! 

The whip, how it cracks ! and the wheels, 
how they spin ! 

How the dirt, right and left, o’er the 
hedges is hurl’d !— 

The pauper at length makes a noise in the 
world! 

Rattle his bones over the stones! 

He’s only a pauper whom nobody 
owns! 

Poor pauper defunct! he has made some 
approach 

To gentility, now that lie’s stretch’d in a 
coach! 


He’s taking a drive in his carriage at 

last; 

But it will not be long, if he goes on so 
fast: 

Rattle his bones over the stones ! 

He’s only a pauper whom nobody 
owns! 

You bumpkins ! who stare at your brother 
convey’d, 

Behold what respect to a cloddy is 
paid! 

And be joyful to think, when by death 
you’re laid low, 

You’ve a chance to the grave like a gem- 
man to go! 

Rattle his bones over the stones! 

He’s only a pauper whom nobody 
owns! 

But a truce to this strain; for my soul it 
is sad, 

To think that a heart in humanity clad 

Should make, like the brutes, such a deso¬ 
late end, 

And depart from the light without leaving 
a friend! 

Bear soft his bones over the stones! 

Though a pauper, lie’s one whom his 
Maker yet owns! 

Thomas Noel. 

Time. 

“Why sit’st thou by that ruin’d hall, 
Thou aged carle so stern and gray ? 

Dost thou its former pride recall, 

Or ponder how it pass’d away ?”— 

“Know’st thou not me?” the Deep Voice 
cried; 

“ So long enjoy’d, so oft misused— 

Alternate, in thy fickle pride, 

Desired, neglected, and accused ! 

“ Before my breath, like blazing flax, 

Man and his marvels pass away ! 

And changing empires wane and wax, 

Are founded, flourish, and decay. 

“Redeem mine hours—the space is brief— 
While in my glass the sand grains shiver, 

And measureless thy joy or grief, 

When Time and thou shaltpart for ever!’ 

Sir Walter Scott. 






718 


FIRESIDE ENCYCLOPEDIA OF POETRY. 


Good-Night. 

Downward sinks the setting sun, 

Soft the evening shadows fall; 

Light is flying, 

Day is dying, 

Darkness stealeth over all. 

Good-night! 

Autumn garners in her stores— 

Foison of the fading year; 

Leaves are dying, 

Winds are sighing— 
Whispering of the Winter near. 

Good-night! 

Youth is vanished, manhood wanes; 
Age its forward shadows throws; 

Day is dying, 

Years are flying, 

Life runs onward to its close. 

Good-night! 

Author Unknown. 

Good Gounseil of Chaucer. 

Flue fro the pres, and duelle with soth- 
fastnesse; 

Suffice the thy good though hit be smale; 
For horde hath hate, and clymbvng tikel- 
nesse, 

Pres hath envye, and wele is blent over alle. \ 
Savourc no more then the behove shalle; 
Bede wel th v self that other folke canst rede, 
And trouthe the shal delyver, hit vs no 
drede. 

Peyne the not eche croked to redresse 
In trust of hire that turneth as a balle, 
Grete rest stunt in lytil besynesse; 

Bewar also to spurne ayeine an nalle, 
Stryve not as doth a croke with a walle ; 
Daunt thy selfe that dauntest otheres dede, 
And trouthe the shal delyver, hit is no 
drede. 

That the ys sent receyve in buxomnesse, 
The wrastelingof this world asketh a falle; 
tier is no home, her is but wyldyrnesse. 
Forth pilgrime! forth best out of thv 
stalle! 

Loke up on live, and thonke God of alle; 
Weyve thy lust, and let thy goste the lode, 
And trouthe shal thee delyver, hit is no 
drede. 

Geoffrey Chaucer. 


Sic Vita. 

Like to the falling of a star, 

Or as the flights of eagles are, 

Or like the fresh spring’s gaudy hue, 

Or silver drops of morning dew, 

Or like a wind that chafes the flood, 

Or bubbles which on water stood— 

E’en such is man, whose borrow’d light 
Is straight called in, and paid to-night. 
The wind blows out, the bubble dies, 
The spring entomb’d in autumn lies, 
The dew dries up, the star is shot, 

The flight is past—and man forgot! 

Henry King. 

Lines. 

Written by One in the Tower, being 
Young And condemned to Die. 

My prime of youth is but a frost of cares. 
My feast of joy is but a dish of pain, 

My crop of corn is but a field of tares, 

And all my goodes is but vain hope of 
gain. 

The day is fled, and yet I saw no sun ; 

And now I live, and now my life is done! 

My spring is past, and yet it hath not 
sprung, 

The fruit is dead, and yet the leaves are 
green ; 

My youth is past, and yet I am but young, 
I saw the world, and yet I was not seen. 
My thread is cut, and yet it is not spun ; 
And now 1 live, and now my life is done ! 

I sought for death, and found it in the 
wombe, 

I lookt for life, and yet it was a shade, 

I trade the ground, and knew it was my 
tombe, 

And now I die, and now I am but made. 
The glass is full, and yet my glass is run ; 
And now I live, and now my life is done! 

Chidiock Tychborn. 

On His Divine Poems. 

When we for age could neither read nor 
write, 

The subject made us able to indite: 

The soul, with nobler resolutions deck’d, 
The body stooping, does herself erect: 

No mortal parts are requisite to raise 
Her that unbodied can her Maker praise. 











MORAL AXD DIDACTIC POETRY. 


7H 


The seas are quiet when the winds give o’er; 
So calm are we when passions are no more. 
For then we know how vain it was to boast 
Of fleeting things, so certain to be lost. 

Clouds of affection from our younger eyes 
Conceal that emptiness which age descries. 
The soul’s dark cottage, batter’d and de¬ 
cay’d, 

Lets in new light through chinks that time 
has made. 

Stronger by weakness, wiser men become 
As they draw near to their eternal home. 
Leaving the old, both worlds at once they 
view, 

That stand upon the threshold of the new. 

Edmund Waller. 

From “ In Memoriam .” 

I. 

J heed it truth, with him who sings 
To one clear harp in divers tones, 

That men may rise on stepping-stones 
Of their dead selves to higher things. 

But who shall so forecast the years 
And find in loss a gain to match? 

Or reach a hand thro’ time to catch 
The far-off interest of tears? 

Let Love clasp Grief lest both be drown’d, 
Let darkness keep her raven gloss: 

Ah, sweeter to be drunk with loss, 

To dance with death, to beat the ground, 

Than that the victor Hours should scorn 
The long result of love, and boast, 
“Behold the man that loved and lost, 

But all he was is overworn.” 

XXXII. 

Her eyes are homes of silent prayer, 

Nor other thought her mind admits 
But, he was dead, and there he sits, 
And He that brought him back is there. 

Then one deep love doth supersede 
All other, when her ardent gaze 
Roves from the living brother’s face, 
And rests upon the Life indeed. 

All subtle thought, all curious fears, 

Borne down by gladness so complete, 
She bows, she bathes the Saviour’s feet 
With costly spikenard and with tears. 


Thrice blest whose lives are faithful prayers 
Whose loves in higher love endure; 
What soul possess themselves so pure 
Or is there blessedness like theirs? 

LIV. 

Oh yet we trust that somehow good 
Will be the final goal of ill, 

To pangs of nature, sins of will, 

Defects of doubt, and taints of blood ; 

That nothing walks with aimless feet; 
That not one life, shall be destroyed, 

Or cast as rubbish to the void, 

! When God hath made the pile complete 

That not a worm is cloven in vain; 

That not a moth with vain desire 
Is shrivell’d in a fruitless fire, 

Or but subserves another’s gain. 

Behold, we know not anything; 

T can but trust that good shall fall 
At last—far off—at last, to all, 

And every winter change to spring. 

! So runs my dream : but what am I? 

An infant crying in the night: 

An infant crying for the light: 

| And with no language but a cry. 

LXXVIII. 

| Again at Christmas did we weave 

The holly round the Christmas hearth: 
The silent snow possessed the earth, 
And calmly fell our Christmas-eve: 

The yule-clog sparkled keen with frost. 
No wing of wind the region swept, 

But over all things brooding slept 
The quiet sense of something lost. 

As in the winters left behind 
Again our ancient games had place, 

The mimic picture’s breathing grace, 
And dance and song and hoodman-blind. 

Who show’d a token of distress ? 

No single tear, no mark of pain : 

0 sorrow, then can sorrow wane ? 

O grief, can grief be changed to less ? 

0 last regret, regret can die! 

No—mixt with all this mystic frame, 
Her deep relations are the same, 

But with long use her tears are dry. 





72U 


FIRESIDE ENCYCLOPAEDIA OF POETRY 


CYI. 

Ring out, wild bells, to the wild sky, 

The flying cloud, the frosty light: 

The year is dying in the night; 

Ring out, wild bells, and let him die. 

Ring out the old, ring in the new, 

Ring, happy bells, across the snow : 

The year is going, let him go; 

Ring out the false, ring in the true. 

Ring out the grief that saps the mind, 

For those that here we see no more; 
Ring out the feud of rich and poor, 
Ring in redress to all mankind. 

Ring out a slowly dying cause, 

And ancient forms of party strife; 

Ring in the nobler modes of life, 

With sweeter manners, purer laws. 

Ring out the want, the care, the sin, 

The faithless coldness of the times; 
Ring out, ring out my mournful rhymes, 
But ring the fuller minstrel in. 

Ring out false pride in place and blood, 
The civic slander and the spite; 

Ring in the love of truth and right, 
Ring in the common love of good. 

Ring out old shapes of foul disease ; 

Ring out the narrowing lust of gold ; 
Ring out the thousand wars of old, 

Ring in the thousand years of peace. 

Ring in the valiant man and free, 

The larger heart, the kindlier hand; 
Ring out the darkness of the land, 

Ring in the Christ that is to be. 

Alfred Tennyson. 


Recessional. 

(London Times, July 17, 1897.) 

God of our fathers, known of old— 

Lord of our far-flung battle-line— 
Beneath whose awful hand we hold 
Dominion over palm and pine— 

Lord God of hosts, be with us yet, 

Lest we forget—lest we forget! 

The tumult and the shouting dies— 

The captains and the kings depart— 
Still stands Thine ancient sacrifice, 

An humble and a contrite heart. 

Lord God of hosts, be with us yet, 

Lest we forget—lest we forget! 

[ Far-called our navies melt away— 

On dune and headland sinks the fire— 
Lo, all our pomp of yesterday 
Is one with Nineveh and Tyre! 

Judge of the nations, spare us yet, 

Lest we forget—lest we forget! 

If, drunk with sight of power, we loose 
Wild tongues that have not Thee in awe— 
Such boasting as the Gentiles use 
Or lesser breeds without the law— 

Lord God of hosts, be with us yet, 

Lest we forget—lest we forget! 

For heathen heart that puts her trust 
In reeking tube and iron shard— 

All valiant dust that builds on dust, 

And guarding calls not Thee to guard— 
For frantic boast and foolish word, 

Thy mercy on thy people, Lord ! Amen. 

Rudyard KlPLINfi. 









Poems of Sentiment. 


On the Prospect of Planting 
Arts and Learning in America. 

The Muse, disgusted at an age and clime 
Barren of every glorious theme, 

In distant lands now waits a better time, 
Producing subjects worthy fame. 

In happy climes, where from the genial 
sun 

And virgin earth such scenes ensue, 

The force of Art by Nature seems outdone, 
And fancied beauties by the true ; 

In happy climes, the seat of innocence, 
Where Nature guides and Virtue rules, 
Where men shall not impose for truth and 
sense 

The pedantry of courts and schools; 

There shall be sung another golden age, 
The rise of empire and of arts, 

The good and great inspiring epic rage, 
The wisest heads and noblest hearts. 

Not such as Europe breeds in her decay; 

Such as she bred when fresh and young, 
When heavenly flame did animate her 
clay, 

By future poets shall be sung. 

Westward the course of empire takes its 
way; 

The four first acts already past, 

A fifth shall close the drama with the day; 
Time’s noblest offspring is the last. 

George Berkeley. 

A Musical Instrument. 

What was he doing, the great god Pan, 
Down in the reeds by the river? 
Spreading ruin and scattering ban, 

46 


Splashing and paddling with hoofs of .» 
goat, 

And breaking the golden lilies afloat 
With the dragon-fly on the river ? 

He tore out a reed, the great god Pan, 
From the deep, cool bed of the river. 
The limpid water turbidly ran, 

And the broken lilies a-dying lay, 

And the dragon-fly had fled away, 

Ere he brought it out of the river. 

High on the shore sate the great god Pan, 
While turbidly flow’d the river, 

And hack’d and hew’d as a great god can 
With his hard, bleak steel at the patient 
reed, 

Till there was not a sign of a leaf indeed 
To prove it fresh from the river. 

He cut it short, did the great god Pan 
(How tall it stood in the river!) 

Then drew the pith like the heart of ti 
man, 

Steadily from the outside ring, 

Then notch’d the poor dry empty thing 
In holes as he sate by the river. 

“ This is the way,” laugh’d the great god 
Pan 

(Laugh’d while he sate by the river), 

“ The only way since gods began 
To make sweet music, they could succeed.’ 5 
Then dropping his mouth to a hole in the 
reed, 

He blew in power by the river. 

Sweet, sweet, sweet, O Pan, 

Piercing sweet by the river ! 

Blinding sweet, 0 great god Pan ! 

The sun on the hill forgot to die, 

And the lilies revived, and the dragon-fly 
Came back to dream on the river. 

721 






22 


FIRESIDE ENCYCLOPAEDIA OF POETRY. 


Vet half a beast is the great god Pan, 

To laugh, as he sits by the river, 

Making a poet out of a man. 

The true gods sigh for the cost and the 
pain,— 

For the reed that grows nevermore again 
As a reed with the reeds of the river. 

Elizabeth Bakrett Browning. 

ALEXANDER’S FEAST; OR, THE 
POWER OF MUSIC. 

An Ode in Honor op St. Cecilia’s Day. 

I. 

’Twas at the royal feast for Persia won 
By Philip’s warlike son: 

Aloft, in awful state, 

The godlike hero sate 
On his imperial throne: 

His valiant peers were placed around, 
Their brows with roses and with myrtles 
bound 

(So should desert in arms be crown’d): 
The lovely Thais, by his side, 

Sate like a blooming Eastern bride, 

In flower of youth and beauty’s pride. 
Happy, happy, happy pair! 

None but the brave, 

None but the brave, 

None but the brave deserves the 
fair. 

CHORUS. 

Happy, happy, happy pair! 

None but the brave, 

None but the brave, 

None but the brave deserves the 
fair. 

ii. 

Timotheus, placed on high 
Amid the tuneful quire, 

With flying fingers touch’d the lyre; 
The trembling notes ascend the sky, 
And heavenly joys inspire. 

The song began from Jove, 

Who left his blissful seats above 
(Such is the power of mighty Love). 
A dragon’s liery form belied the god ; 
Sublime on radiajit spires he rode, 
When he to fair Olympia press’d, 
And while he sought her snowy 
breast: 


[ Then, round her slender waist he curl’d, 
And stamp’d an image of himself, a sover¬ 
eign of the world. 

The listening crowd admire the lofty 
sound— 

A present deity! they shout around ; 

A present deity! the vaulted roofs re¬ 
bound. 

With ravish’d ears 
The monarch hears, 

Assumes the god, 

Affects to nod, 

And seems to shake the spheres, 
CHORUS. 

With ravish’d ears 
The monarch hears, 

Assumes the god, 

Affects to nod, 

And seems to shake the spheres. 
hi. 

The praise of Bacchus, then, the sweet 
musician sung— • 

Of Bacchus ever fair and ever young; 
The jolly god in triumph comes: 
Sound the trumpets; beat the drums! 
Flush’d with a purple grace, 

He shows his honest face; 

Now give the hautboys breath—he comes, 
he comes! 

Bacchus, ever fair and young, 
Drinking joys did first ordain ; 
Bacchus’ blessings are a treasure; 
Drinking is the soldier’s pleasure; 
Rich the treasure, 

Sweet the pleasure; 

Sweet is pleasure after pain. 

CHORUS. 

Bacchus’ blessings are a treasure; 
Drinking is the soldier’s pleasure; 
Rich the treasure, 

Sweet the pleasure; 

Sweet is pleasure after pain. 

IV. 

Soothed with the sound, the king grew 
vain; 

Fought all his battles o’er again ; 

And thrice he routed all his foes, and 
thrice he slew the slain. 








POEMS OF SENTIME XT. 


The master saw the madness rise— 

His glowing cheeks, his ardent eyes ; 
And, while he Heaven and earth defied, 
Changed his hand and check’d his pride. 
He chose a mournful muse, 

Soft pity to infuse : 

He sung Darius great and good, 

By too severe a fate 
Fallen, fallen, fallen, fallen— 

Fallen from his high estate, 

And welt’riug in his blood ; 
Deserted, at his utmost need, 

By those his former bounty fed; 

On the bare earth exposed he lies, 

With not a friend to close his eyes. 

With downcast looks the joyless victor 
sate 

Revolving in his alter’d soul 
The various turns of chance be¬ 
low ; 

And, now and then, a sigh he stole ; 
And tears began to flow. 

CHORUS. 

Revolving in his alter’d soul 
The various turns of chance be¬ 
low ; 

And, now and then, a sigh he stole; 
And tears began to flow. 

v. 

The mighty master smiled to see 
That love was in the next degree: 

’Twas but a kindred sound to move, 

For pity melts the mind to love. 

Softly sweet, in Lydian measures, 

Soon he soothed his soul to pleasures. 
War, he sung, is toil and trouble; 

Honor but an empty bubble— 

Never ending, still beginning— 
Fighting still, and still destroying; 

If the world be worth thy winning, 
Think, oh think it worth enjoying! 
Lovely Thais sits beside thee— 

Take the good the gods provide thee. 
The many rend the sky with loud ap¬ 
plause ; 

So Love was crown’d, but Music won the 
cause. 

The prince, unable to conceal his pain, 
Gazed on the fair 
Who caused his care, 


And sigh’d and look’d, sigh’d and look’d, 
Sigh’d and look’d, and sigh’d again. 

At length, with love and wine at once op¬ 
press’d, 

The vanquish’d victor sunk upon her 
breast. 

CHORUS. 

The prince, unable to conceal his pain, 
Gazed on the fair 
Who caused his care, 

And sigh’d and look’d, sigh’d and look’d, 
Sigh’d and look’d, and sigh’d again. 

At length, with love and wine at once op¬ 
press’d, 

The vanquish’d victor sunk upon her 
breast. 

Yl. 

Now strike the golden lyre again— 

A louder yet, and yet a louder strain ! 
Break his bands of sleep asunder, 

And rouse him, like a rattling peal of 
thunder. 

Hark, hark! the horrid sound 
Has raised up his head! 

As aw'aked from the dead, 

And amazed, he stares around. 

Revenge! revenge! Timotheus cries; 

See the Furies arise ! 

See the snakes that they rear, 

How they hiss in their hair, 

And the sparkles that flash from their 
eyes! 

Behold a ghastly band, 

Each a torch in his hand! 

Those are Grecian ghosts, that in battle 
were slain, 

And unburied remain, 

Inglorious, on the plain ! 

Give the vengeance due 
To the gallant crew. 

Behold how they toss their torches on high, 
How they point to the Persian abodes, 

And glittering temples of their hostile 
gods! 

The princes applaud with a furious joy, 

And the king seized a flambeau with zeal 
to destroy ; 

Thais led the way 
To light him to his prey. 

And, like another Helen, fired another 
Troy, 








724 


FIRESIDE ENCYCLOPAEDIA OF POETRY 


CHORUS. 

And the king seized a flambeau with zeal 
to destroy; 

Thais led the way 
To light him to his prey, 

And, like another Helen, fired another 
Troy. 

VII. 

Thus, long ago— 

Ere heaving bellows learn’d to blow, 
While organs yet were mute— 

Timotheus, to his breathing flute 

And sounding lyre, 

Could swell the soul to rage, or kindle soft 
desire. 

At last divine Cecilia came, 

Inventress of the vocal frame; 

The sweet enthusiast, from her sacred 
store, 

Enlarged the former narrow bounds, 

And added length to solemn sounds, 
With Nature’s mother-wit, and arts un¬ 
known before. 

Let old Timotheus yield the prize, 

Or both divide the crown ; 

He raised a mortal to the skies— 

She drew an angel down. 

GRAND CHORUS. 

At last divine Cecilia came, 

Inventress of the vocal frame; 

The sweet enthusiast, from her sacred 
store, 

Enlarged the former narrow bounds, 

And added length to solemn sounds, 
With Nature’s mother-wit, and arts un¬ 
known before. 

Let old Timotheus yield the prize, 

Or both divide the crown; 

He raised a mortal to the skies— 

She drew an angel down. 

John Dryden. 


A Song for St. Cecilia'S Da y. 

i. 

From harmony, from heavenly harmony, 
This universal frame began. 

When Nature underneath a heap 
Of jarring atoms lay, 


And could not heave her head, 

The tuneful voice was heard from high, 
Arise, ye more than dead ! 

Then cold, and hot, and moist, and dry 
In order to their stations leap, 

And Music’s power obey. 

From harmony, from heavenly harmony, 
This universal frame began : 

From harmony to harmony 
Through all the compass of the notes if 
ran, 

The diapason closing full in Man. 

II. 

What passion cannot Music raise and 
quell ? 

When Jubal struck the chorded shell 
His listening brethren stood around, 
And, wondering, on their faces fell 
To worship that celestial sound. 

Less than a god they thought there could 
not dwell 

Within the hollow of that shell 
That spoke so sweetly and so well. 

What passion cannot Music raise and 
quell ? 

in. 

The trumpet’s loud clangor 
Excites us to arms, 

With shrill notes of anger 
And mortal alarms. 

The double double double beat 
Of the thundering drum 
Cries, “ Hark ! the foes come ; 

Charge, charge, ’tis too late to retreat!” 

IV. 

The soft complaining flute 
In dying notes discovers 
The woes of hopeless lovers, 

Whose dirge is whisper’d by the warbling 
lute. 

v. 

[ Sharp violins proclaim 
Their jealous pangs and desperation, 

Fury, frantic indignation, 

Depth of pains, and height of passion 
I For the fair, disdainful dame. 










POEMS OF SENTIMENT. 


725 


VI. 

But oh ! what art can teach, 

What human voice can reach, 

The sacred organ’s praise ? 

Notes inspiring holy love, 

Notes that wing their heavenly ways 
To mend the choirs above. 

VII. 

Orpheus could lead the savage race, 

And trees uprooted left their place 
Sequacious of the lyre : 

But bright Cecilia raised the wonder 
higher: 

When to her organ vocal breath was given 
An angel heard, and straight appear’d— 
Mistaking Earth for Heaven ! 

GRAND CHORUS. 

4s from the power of sacred lays 
The spheres began to move, 

And sung the great Creator’s praise 
To all the blest above ; 

So when the last and dreadful hour 
This crumbling pageant shall devour, 

The trumpet shall be heard on high, 

The dead shall live, the living die, 

And Music shall untune the sky. 

John Dryden. 

Ode on St. Cecilia'S Day. 

i. 

Descend, ye Nine! descend and sing; 

The breathing instruments inspire; 
Wake into voice each silent string, 

And sweep the sounding lyre! 

In a sadly-pleasing strain 
Let the warbling lute complain : 

Let the loud trumpet sound, 

Till the roofs all around 
The shrill echoes rebound : 

While in more lengthen’d notes and slow 
The deep, majestic, solemn organs blow. 
Hark! the numbers soft and clear 
Gently steal upon the ear; 

Now louder, and yet louder rise, 

And till with spreading sounds the skies; 
Exulting in triumph now swell the bold 
notes, 

In broken air, trembling, the wild music 
floats: 


Till by degrees, remote and small, 

The strains decay, 

And melt away 
In a dying, dying fall. 

II. 

By Music, minds an equal temper know, 

| Nor swell too high, nor sink too low'. 

If in the breast tumultuous joys arise, 

Music her soft, assuasive voice applies ; 
Or, when the soul is press’d with cares, 
Exalts her in enliv’ning airs: 

Warriors she fires with animated sounds ; 

Pours balm into the bleeding lover’s 
wounds: 

Melancholy lifts her head, 

Morpheus rouses from his bed, 

Sloth unfolds her arms and w r akes, 
List’ning Envy drops her snakes, 

Intestine war no more our Passions wage, 

And giddy Factions hear away their rage. 

III. 

But when our country’s cause provokes to 
arms, 

How' martial music ev’ry bosom warms ! 

So when the first bold vessel dared the 
seas, 

High on the stern the Thracian raised his 
strain, 

While Argo saw her kindred trees 
Descend from Pelion to the main. 
Transported demigods stood round, 

And men grew heroes at the sound, 
Inflamed with glory’s charms: 

Each chief his sevenfold shield display’d, 
And half unsheathed the shining blade: 
And seas, and rocks, and skies rebound, 
To arms! to arms ! to arms! 

IV. 

But w'hen through all th’ infernal bounds, 

Which flaming Phlegethon surrounds, 
Love, strong as Death, the poet led 
To the pale nations of the dead, 

What sounds w r ere heard, 

What scenes appear’d 

O’er all the dreary coasts I 
Dreadful gleams, 

Dismal screams, 

Fires that glow, 

Shrieks of w r oe. 







726 


FIRESIDE ENCYCLOPAEDIA OF POETRY. 


Sullen moans, 

Hollow groans, 

And cries of tortured ghosts ! 

But hark! he strikes the golden lyre; 

A nd see! the tortured ghosts respire, 

See, shady forms advance! 

Thy stone, 0 Sisyphus, stands still, 
Ixion rests upon his wheel, 

And the pale spectres dance! 

The Furies sink upon their iron beds, 

And snakes uncurl’d hang list’ning round 
their heads. 

V. 

By the streams that ever flow, 

By the fragrant winds that blow 
O’er th’ Elysian flow’rs ; 

By those happy souls who dwell 
In yellow meads of asphodel, 

Or amaranthine how’rs; 

By the heroes’ armfed shades, 

Glitt’ring through the gloomy glades, 

By the youths that died for love, 

Wand’ring in the myrtle grove; 

Restore, restore Eurvdice to life: 

Oh take the husband, or return the wife! 
He sung, and Hell consented 
To hear the poet’s prayer: 

Stern Proserpine relented, 

And gave him back the fair. 

Thus song could prevail 
O’er Death and o’er Hell, 

A conquest how hard, and how glorious! 
Though Fate had fast bound her 
With Styx nine times round her, 

Yet Music and Love were victorious. 

VI. 

But soon, too soon, the lover turns his 
eyes: 

Again she falls—again she dies—she dies ! 
How wilt thou now the fatal sisters move? 
Xo crime was thine, if ’tis no crime to love. 
Now under hanging mountains, 

Beside the falls of fountains, 

Or where Hebrus wanders, 

Rolling in meanders, 

All alone, 

Unheard, unknown, 

He makes his moan ; 

And calls her ghost, 

For ever, ever, ever lost! 


Now with Furies surrounded, 
Despairing, confounded, 

He trembles, he glows, 

Amidst Rhodope’s snows: 

See, wild as the winds, o’er the desert he 
flies; 

Hark! Hamms resounds with the Bac» 
ehanals’ cries—Ah see, he dies! 

Yet ev’n in death Eurydiee he sung, 
Eurvdice still trembled on his tongue, 
Eurydiee the woods, 

Eurydiee the floods, 

Eurvdice the rocks and hollow mountains 
rung. 

VII. 

Music the fiercest grief can charm, 

And fate’s severest rage disarm ; 

Music can soften pain to ease, 

And make despair and madness please; 
Our joys below it can improve, 

And antedate the bliss above. 

This the divine Cecilia found, 

And to her Maker’s praise confined the 
sound. 

When the full organ joins the tuneful 
quire, 

Th’ immortal pow’rs incline their ear; 
Borne on the swelling notes our souls as 
pire, 

While solemn airs improve the sacredt 
fire; 

And angels lean from Heav’n to hear. 

Of Orpheus now no more let poets tell. 

To bright Cecilia greater pow’r is giv’n ; 
His numbers raised a shade from Hell, 
Hers lift the soul to Heav’n. 

Alexander Pope. 

The Progress of poesy. 

A Pindaric Ode. 

Awake, JEolian lyre, awake, 

And give to rapture all thv trembling 
strings. 

From Helicon’s harmonious springs 
A thousand rills their mazy progress 
take; 

The laughing flowers that round them 
blow 

Drink life and fragrance as they flow. 

Now the rich stream of Music winds along, 
Deep, majestic, smooth, and strong, 






POEMS OF SENTIMENT. 


727 


Through verdant vales, and Ceres’ golden 
reign; 

Now rolling down the steep amain 
Headlong, impetuous, see it pour: 

The rocks and nodding groves re-bellow 
to the roar. 

O Sovereign of the willing soul, 

Parent of sweet and solemn-breathing 
airs, 

Enchanting shell! the sullen Cares 
And frantic Passions hear thy soft con¬ 
trol. 

On Tkracia’s hills the Lord of War 
Has eurb’d the fury of his car 
A ml dropp’d his thirsty lance at thy com¬ 
mand. 

Perching on the sceptred hand 
Of Jove, thy magic lulls the feather’d 
king 

With ruffled plumes and flagging wing; 
Quench’d in dark clouds of slumber lie 
The terror of his beak, and lightnings of 
his eye. 

Thee the voice, the dance, obey 
Temper’d to thy warbled lay. 

O’er Idalia’s velvet-green 
The rosy-crowned Loves are seen 
On Cytherea’s day, 

With antic Sport, and blue-eyed Pleasures, 
Frisking light in frolic measures; 

Now pursuing, now retreating, 

Now in circling troops they meet, 

To brisk notes in cadence beating 
Glance their many-twinkling feet. 

Slow melting strains their Queen’s ap¬ 
proach declare: 

Where’er she turns the Graces homage 
pay. 

With arms sublime that float upon the air 
In gliding state she wins her easy way: 
O’er her warm cheek and rising bosom 
move 

The bloom of young Desire and purple 
light of Love. 

Man’s feeble race what ills await! 

Labor, and Penury, the racks of Pain, 
Disease, and Sorrow’s weeping train, 

And Death, sad refuge from the storms 
of Fate! 


The fond complaint, my song, disprove, 
And justify the laws of Jove. 

Say, has he given in vain the heavenly 
Muse ? 

Night, and all her sickly dews, 

Her spectres wan, and birds of boding 
cry 

He gives to range the dreary sky, 

Till down the eastern cliffs afar 
Hyperion’s march they spy, and glittering 
shafts of war. 

In climes beyond the solar road 
Where shaggy forms o’er ice-built moun¬ 
tains roam, 

The Muse has broke the twilight gloom 
To cheer the shivering native’s dull 
abode. 

And oft, beneath the od’rous shade 
Of Chili’s boundless forests laid, 

She deigns to hear the savage youth re¬ 
peat 

In loose numbers wildly sweet 
Their feather-cinctured chiefs and dusky 
loves. 

Her track, where’er the goddess roves, 
Glory pursue, and gen’rous Shame, 

Th’ unconquerable Mind, and Freedom’s 
holy flame. 

Woods, that wave o’er Delphi’s steep, 
Isles, that crown th’ vEgean deep, 

Fields, that cool Ilissus laves, 

Or where Mteander’s amber waves 
In lingering lab’rinths creep, 

How do your tuneful echoes languish, 
Mute, but to the voice of anguish! 

Where each old poetic mountain 
Inspiration breathed around; 

Every shade and hallow’d fountain 
Murmur’d deep a solemn sound ; 

Till the sad Nine, in Greece’s evil hour, 
Left their Parnassus for the Latian 
plains. 

Alike they scorn the pomp of tyrant 
Power, 

And coward Vice, that revels in her 
chains. 

When Latium had her lofty spirit lost, 
They sought, O Albion! next, thy sea-eti 
circled coast. 









728 


FIRESIDE ENCYCLOPAEDIA OF POETRY 


Far from the sun and summer gale, 

In thy green lap was Nature’s darling laid, 
What time, where lucid Avon stray’d, 

To him the mighty mother did unveil 
Her awful face: the dauntless child 
Stretch’d forth his little arms, and smiled. 
This pencil take (she said), whose colors 
clear 

Richly paint the vernal year ; 

Thine, too, these golden keys, immortal 
boy! 

This can unlock the gates of Joy; 

Of Horror that, and thrilling Fears, 

Or ope the sacred source of sympathetic 
Tears. 

Nor second he, that rode sublime 
Upon the seraph-wings of Ecstasy, 

The secrets of th’ abyss to spy. 

He pass’d the flaming bounds of Place 
and Time, 

The living Throne, the sapphire-blaze 
Where angels tremble while they gaze; 

He saw, but, blasted with excess of light, 
Closed his eyes in endless night. 

Behold where Dryden’s less presumptuous 
car 

Wide o’er the fields of glory bear 
Two coursers of ethereal race, 

With necks in thunder clothed, and long- 
resounding pace. 

Hark ! his hands the lyre explore! 
Bright-eyed Fancy, hovering o’er, 
Scatters from her pictured urn 
Thoughts that breathe, and words that 
burn. 

But ah! ’tis heard no more— 

O Lyre divine ! what daring Spirit 
Wakes thee now? Tho’ he inherit 
Nor the pride, nor ample pinion, 

That the Theban eagle bear, 

Sailing with supreme dominion 
Thro’ the azure deep of air; 

Yet oft before his infant eyes would run 
Such forms as glitter in the Muse’s ray 
With orient hues, unborrow’d of the sun ; 
Yet shall he mount, and keep his dis¬ 
tant way 

Beyond the limits of a vulgar fate, 

Beneath the Good how far, but far above 
the Great, 


The Passions. 

An Ode for Music. 

When Music, heavenly maid, was young, 
While yet in early Greece she sung, 

The Passions oft, to hear her shell, 
Throng’d around her magic cell, 

Exulting, trembling, raging, fainting, 
Possest beyond the Muse’s painting ; 

By turns they felt the glowing mind 
Disturb’d, delighted, raised, refined ; 

Till once, ’tis said, when all were fired, 
Fill’d with fury, rapt, inspired, 

From the supporting myrtles round 
They snatch’d her instruments of sound, 
And, as they oft had heard apart 
Sweet lessons of her forceful art, 

Each, for Madness ruled the hour, 

1 Would prove his own expressive power. 

First Fear his hand, its skill to try, 

Amid the chords bewilder’d laid, 

And back recoil’d, he knew not why, 

E’en at the sound himself had made. 

Next x\nger rush’d ; his eyes on fire, 

In lightnings own’d his secret stings : 

In one rude clash he struck the lyre 

And swept with hurried hand the 
• strings. 

With woeful measures wan Despair— 

Low, sullen sounds his grief beguiled ; 

A solemn, strange, and mingled air ; 

’Twas sad by fits, by starts ’twas wild. 

But thou, O Hope, with eyes so fair, 

What was thy delighted measure ? 

Still it whisper’d promised pleasure, 

And bade the lovely scenes at distance 
hail! 

Still would her touch the strain prolong ; 
And from the rocks, the woods, the 
vale 

She call’d on Echo still through all the 
song; 

And, where her sweetest theme she 
chose, 

A soft responsive voice was heard at 
every close; 

And Hope enchanted smiled, and waved 
her golden hair. 


Thomas Gray. 










POEMS OF SENTIMENT. 


729 


And longer had she sung:—but with a 
frown 

Revenge impatient rose: 

He threw his blood-stain’d sword in thun¬ 
der down ; 

And with a withering look 

The war-denouncing trumpet took, 
And blew a blast so loud and dread, 
Were ne’er prophetic sounds so full of 
woe! 

And ever and anon he beat 
The doubling drum with furious heat; 
And, though sometimes, each dreary pause 
between, 

Dejected Pity at his side 

Her soul-subduing voice applied, 

Yet still he kept his wild unalter’d mien, 
While each strain’d ball of sight seem’d 
bursting from his head. 

Thy numbers, Jealousy, to naught were 
fix’d: 

Sad proof of thy distressful state! 

Of differing themes the veering song was 
mix’d; 

And now it courted Love, now raving 
call’d on Hate. 

With eyes upraised, as one inspired, 

Pale Melancholy sat retired ; 

And from her wild sequester’d seat, 
in notes by distance made more sweet, 
Pour’d through the mellow horn her pen¬ 
sive soul: 

And dashing soft from rocks around 
Bubbling runnels join’d the sound ; 
Through glades and glooms the mingled 
measure stole, 

Or, o’er some haunted stream, with fond 
delay, 

Round an holy calm diffusing, 

Love of peace, and lonely musing, 

In hollow murmurs died aw’ay. 

But oh ! how alter’d was its sprightlier 
tone 

When Cheerfulness, a nymph of healthi¬ 
est hue, 

Her bow across her shoulder Hung, 

Her buskins gcmm’d with morning dew, 


Blew an inspiring air, that dale and thicket 
rung, 

The hunter’s call to Faun and Dryad 
known. 

The oak-crown’d Sisters and their 
chaste-eyed Queen, 

Satyrs and Sylvan Boys were seen 
Peeping from forth their alleys green ; 

Brown Exercise rejoiced to hear ; 

And Sport leap’d up, and seized his 
beechen spear. 

Last came Joy’s ecstatic trial: 

He, with viny crown advancing, 

First to the lively pipe his hand ad- 
drest; 

But soon he saw the brisk awakening viol 
Whose sweet entrancing voice he loved 
the best: 

They would have thought who heard the 
strain 

They saw, in Tempe’s vale, her native 
maids 

Amidst the festal-sounding shades 
To some unwearied minstrel dancing; 

While, as his flying fingers kiss’d the 
strings, 

Love framed with Mirth a gay, fantastic 
round: 

Loose were her tresses seen, her zone 
unbound; 

And he, amidst his frolic play, 

As if he would the charming air repay, 

Shook thousand odors from his dewy 
wings. 

O Music ! sphere-descended maid, 

Friend of Pleasure, Wisdom’s aid ! 

Why, goddess, why, to us denied, 

Lay’st thou thy ancient lyre aside ? 

As in that loved Athenian bower 
You learn’d an all-commanding power, 
Thy mimic soul, 0 nymph endear’d I 
Can w r ell recall what then it heard. 
Where is thy native simple heart, 

Devote to Virtue, Fancy, Art? 

Arise, as in that elder time, 

Warm, energic, chaste, sublime ! 

Thy wonders, in that god-like age, 

Fill thy recording Sister’s page 
'Tis said, and I believe the tale, 

Thy humblest reed could more prevail. 






30 


FIRESIDE ENCYCLOPAEDIA OF POETRY. 


Had more of strength, diviner rage, 
Than all which charms this laggard age, 
E’en all at once together found 
Cecilia’s mingled world of sound :— 

Oh bid our vain endeavors cease : 
Revive the just designs of Greece: 
Return in all thy simple state ! 

Confirm the tales her sons relate ! 

William Collins. 

Influence of Music. 
Orpheus with his lute made trees, 

And the mountain-tops that freeze, 

Bow themselves, when he did sing: 
To his music, plants and flowers 
Ever sprung, as sun and showers 
There had made a lasting spring. 

Everything that heard him play, 

Even the billows of the sea, 

Hung their heads, and then lay by— 
In sweet music is such art: 

Killing care, and grief of heart, 

Fall asleep, or, hearing, die. 

William Shakespeare. 

With a Guitar, to Jane. 

Ariel to Miranda :—Take 
This slave of Music, for the sake 
Of him who is the slave of thee ; 

And teach it all the harmony 
In which thou canst, and only thou, 
Make the delighted spirit glow, 

Till joy denies itself again, 

And, too intense, is turn’d to pain. 

For by permission and command 
Of thine own prince Ferdinand, 

Poor Ariel sends this silent token 
Of more than ever can be spoken; 

Your guardian spirit, Ariel, who 
From life to life must still pursue 
Your happiness, for thus alone 
Can Ariel ever find his own. 

From Prospero’s enchanted cell, 

As the mighty verses tell, 

To the throne of Naples he 
Lit you o’er the trackless sea, 

Flitting on, your prow before, 

Like a living meteor. 

When you die, the silent Moon 
In her inter lunar swoon 
Is not sadder in her cell 
Than deserted Ariel; 


When you live again on earth, 

Like an unseen star of birth 
Ariel guides you o’er the sea 
Of life from your nativity. 

Many changes have been run 
Since Ferdinand and you begun 
Your course of love, and Ariel still 
Has track’d your steps and served your 
will. 

Now in humbler, happier lot, 

This is all remember’d not; 

And uow, alas ! the poor sprite is 
Imprison’d for some fault of his 
In a body like a grave— 

From you he only dares to crave 
For his service and his sorrow 
A smile to-day, a song to-morrow. 

The artist who this idol wrought 
To echo all harmonious thought, 

Fell’d a tree, while on the steep 
The woods were in their winter sleep, 
Rock’d in that repose divine 
On the wind-swept Apennine; 

And dreaming, some of autumn past. 
And some of spring approaching fast, 
And some of April buds and showers. 
And some of songs in July bowers, 

And all of love; and so this tree— 

Oh, that such our death may be!— 

Died in sleep, and felt no pain, 

To live in happier form again ; 

From which, beneath Heaven’s fairest 
star, 

The artist wrought this loved guitar; 
And taught it justly to reply, 

To all who question skilfully, 

In language gentle as thine own; 
Whispering in enamor’d tone 
Sweet oracles of woods and dells, 

And summer winds in sylvan cells. 

For it had learn’d all harmonies 
Of the plains and of the skies, 

Of the forests and the mountains, 

And the many-voiced fountains; 

The clearest echoes of the hills, 

The softest notes of falling rills, 

The melodies of birds and bees, 

The murmuring of summer seas, 

And pattering rain, and breathing dew. 
And airs of evening; and it knew 
That seldom-heard mysterious sound 
Which, driven on its diurnal round. 







POEMS OF SENTIMENT. 


7.'ll 


As it floats through boundless day 
Our world enkindles on its way. 

All this it knows, but will not tell 
To those who cannot question well 
The spirit that inhabits it. 

It talks according to the wit 
Of its companions; and no more 
Is heard than has been felt before 
By those who tempt it to betray 
These secrets of an elder day. 

But, sweetly as its answers will 
Flatter hands of perfect skill. 

It keeps its highest, holiest tone 
For our beloved Jane alone. 

Percy Bysshe Shelley. 


V Allegro. 

Hence, loathed Melancholy, 

Of Cerberus and blackest Midnight born! 
In Stygian cave forlorn, 

’Mongst horrid shapes, and shrieks, and 
sights unholy, 

Find out some uncouth cell, 

Where brooding Darkness spreads his 
jealous wings, 

And the night raven sings; 

There under ebon shades, and low-brow’d 
rocks, 

As ragged as thy locks, 

In dark Cimmerian desert ever dwell. 
But come thou Goddess fair and free, 

In heav’n y-clep’d Euphrosyne, 

And by men, heart-easing Mirth, 

Whom lovely Venus at a birth 
With two sister Graces more, 

To ivy-crowned Bacchus bore; 

Or whether (as some sager sing) 

The frolic wind that breathes the spring, 
Zephyr with Aurora playing, 

As he met her once a-maying; 

There on beds of violets blue, . 

And fresh-blown roses Avash’d in dew, 
Fill’d her with thee a daughter fair, 

So buxom, blithe, and debonair. 

Haste thee, Nymph, and bring with thee 
Jest, and youthful Jollity, 

Quips, and Cranks, and wanton Wiles, 
Nods, and Becks, and Avreath&d Smiles, 
Such as hang on Hebe’s cheek, 

And love to live in dimple sleek ; 


Sport that Avrinkled Care derides, 

And Laughter holding both his sides, 
j Come, and trip it as you go, 

On the light fantastic toe; 

And in thy right hand lead with thee 
The mountain-nymph, sweet Liberty ; 
And, if I give thee honor due, 

Mirth, admit me of the crew, 

To live with her, and live with thee, 

In unreprov&d pleasures free; 

To hear the lark begin his flight, 

• And singing startle the dull night, 

From his watch-tow’r in the skies, 

Till the dappled dawn doth rise; 

| Then to come in spite of sorroAV, 

| And at my AvindoAV bid good-morrow, 
j Through the sweet-brier, or the vine, 
i Or the tAvisted eglantine: 

While the cock with lively din 
Scatters the rear of darkness thin, 

! And to the stack, or the barn-door, 

; Stoutly struts his dames before: 

Oft list’ning how the hounds and horn 
Cheerly rouse the sluinb’ring morn, 

From the side of some hoar hill, 

Through the high wood echoing shrill: 
Some time walking, not unseen, 

By hedge-row elms, on hillocks green, 
Bight against the eastern gate, 

Where the great sun begins his state, 
Robed in flames, and amber light, 

The clouds in thousand liveries dight; 
While the ploughman near at hand 
Whistles o’er the furroAv’d land, 

And the milkmaid singeth blithe, 

; And the moAver Avhets his scythe, 

And every shepherd tells his tale 
Under the hawthorn in the dale. 

Straight mine eye hath caught new plea 
sures 

Whilst the landscape round it mea 
sures; 

Russet laAvns, and falloAvs gray, 

Where the nibbling flocks do stray, 
Mountains, on whose barren breast 
The lab’ring clouds do often rest; 
Meadows trim with daisies pied, 

Shallow" brooks, and rivers wide. 

Tow’ers and battlements it sees 
Bosom’d high in tufted trees, 

Where perhaps some beauty lies, 

The cynosure of neighb’ring eyes. 





732 


FIRESIDE ENCYCLOPAEDIA OF POETRY. 


Hard by, a cottage chimney smokes, 

From betwixt two aged oaks, 

Where Corydon and Thyrsis met 
Are at their savory dinner set 
Of herbs, and other country messes, 
Which the neat-handed Phillis dresses ; 
And then in haste her bow’r she leaves, 
With Thestylis to bind the sheaves; 

Or, if the earlier season lead, 

To the tann’d haycock in the mead, 
Sometimes with secure delight 
The upland hamlets will invite, 

When the merry bells ring round, 

And the jocund rebecks sound 
To many a youth, and many a maid, 
Dancing in the chequer’d shade ; 

And young and old come forth to play 
On a sunshine holiday, 

Till the live-long daylight fail; 

Then to the spicy nut-brown ale, 

With stories told of many a feat, 

How fairy Mab the junkets eat; 

She was pinch’d, and pull’d she said, 

And he by friars’ lanthorn led 
Tells how the drudging Goblin sweat, 

To earn his cream-bowl duly set, 

When in one night, ere glimpse of 
morn, 

His shadowy flail hath thresh’d the 
corn, 

That ten day-lab’rers could not end; 

Then lies him down the lubber fiend, 

And stretch’d out all the chimney’s length, 
Basks at the fire his hairy strength, 

And crop-full out of doors he flings, 

Ere the first cock his matin rings. 

Thus done the tales, to bed they creep, 

By whispering winds soon lull’d asleep. 
Tower’d cities please us then, 

And the busy hum of men, 

Where throngs of knights and barons bold 
In weeds of peace high triumphs hold, 
With store of ladies, whose bright eyes 
Rain influence, and judge the prize 
Of wit, or arms, while both contend 
To win her grace, whom all commend. 
There let Hymen oft appear 
In saffron robe, with taper clear, 

And pomp, and feast, and revelry, 

With mask, and antique pageantry, 

Such sights as youthful poets dream 
On summer eves by haunted stream. 


Then to the well-trod stage anon, 

If Jonson’s learned sock be on, 

Or sweetest Shakespeare, Fancy’s child, 
Warble his native wood-notes wild. 

And ever against eating cares, 

Lap me in soft Lydian airs, 

Married to immortal verse; 

Such as the meeting soul may pierce, 

In notes, with many a winding bout 
Of linked sweetness long drawn out, 

With wanton heed and giddy cunning, 

The melting voice through mazes run¬ 
ning, 

Untwisting all the chains that tie 
The hidden soul of harmony; 

That Orpheus’ self may heave his head 
From golden slumber on a bed 
Of heap’d Elysian flowers, and hear 
Such strains as would have won the ear 
Of Pluto, to have quite set free 
His lialf-regain’d Eurvdice. 

These delights if thou canst give, 

Mirth, with thee I mean to live. 

John Milton. 

Sonnet to his Lute. 

My lute, be as thou wert when thou didst 
grow 

With thy green mother in some shady 
grove, 

When im melodious winds but made thee 
move, 

And birds their ramage did on thee be¬ 
stow. 

Since that dear voice which did thy 
sounds approve, 

Which wont in such harmonious strains 
to flow, 

Is reft from earth to tune the spheres 
above, 

What art thou but a harbinger of woe? 
Thy pleasing notes be pleasing notes no 
more, 

But orphan wailings to the fainting ear; 
Each stroke a sigh, each sound draws 
forth a tear; 

For which be silent as in woods before : 

Or if that any hand to touch thee deign, 
Like widow’d turtle still her loss com¬ 
plain. 

William Drummond. 










POEMS OF SENTIMENT. 


A Canadian Boat-Song. 

Et remigem canlus hortalur. 

Quintilian. 

Faintly as tolls the evening chime, 

Our voices keep tune, and our oars keep 
time. 

Soon as the woods on shore look dim, 
We’ll sing at St. Ann’s our parting hymn. 
Row, brothers, row ! the stream runs fast, 
The rapids are near, and the daylight’s 
past! 

Why should we yet our sail unfurl ?—• 
There is not a breath the blue wave to curl. 
But when the wind blows off' the shore 
Oh ! sweetly we’ll rest our weary oar. 
Blow, breezes, blow ! the stream runs fast, 
The rapids are near, and the daylight’s 
past!. 

Utawa’s tide ! this trembling moon 
Shall see us float over thy surges soon. 
Saint of this green isle, hear our prayers— 
Oh ! grant us cool heavens and favoring 
airs! 

Blow, breezes, blow ! the stream runs fast, 
The rapids are near, and the daylight’s 
past! 

Thomas Moore. 


IL PENSEROSO. 

Hence, vain deluding joys, 

The brood of folly without father bred, 
How little you bestead, 

Or fill the fixfed mind with all your toys ! 

Dwell in some idle brain, 

And fancies fond with gaudy shapes pos¬ 
sess, 

As thick and numberless 
As the gay motes that people the sun¬ 
beams, 

Or likest hovering dreams, 

The fickle pensioners cf Morpheus’ train. 
But hail, thou goddess sage and holy, 

Hail, divinest Melancholy, 

Whose saintly visage is too bright 
To hit the sense of human sight, 

And therefore to our weaker view 
O’erlaid with black, staid Wisdom’s hue ; 
P.lack, but such as in esteem 
Prince Memnon’s sister might beseem, 




Or that starr’d Ethiop queen that strove 
To set her beauty’s praise above 
The Sea-Nymphs, and their pow’rs of 
fended: 

Yet thou art higher far descended ; 

Thee bright-hair’d Vesta, long of yore. 

To solitary Saturn bore ; 

His daughter she (in Saturn’s reign 
Such mixture was not held a stain). 

Oft in glimmering bow’rs and glades 
He met her, and in secret shades 
Of woody Ida’s inmost grove, 

While yet there was no fear of Jove. 
Come, pensive nun, devout and pure, 
Sober, steadfast, and demure, 

All in a robe of darkest grain, 

Flowing with majestic train, 

And sable stole of Cyprus lawn 
Over thy decent shoulders drawn. 

Come, but keep thy wonted state, 

With even step, and musing gait, 

And looks commercing with the skies, 

Thy rapt soul sitting in thine eyes : 

There held in holy passion still, 

Forget thyself to marble, till 
With a sad leaden downward cast 
Thou fix them on the earth as fast: 

And join with thee calm Peace and Quiet 
Spare Fast, that oft with gods doth diet, 
And hears the muses in a ring 
Aye round about Jove’s altar sing: 

And add to these retired Leisure, 

That in trim gardens takes his pleasure; 
But first, and chiefest, with thee bring, 
Him that yon soars on golden wing, 
Guiding the fiery-wheel&d throne, 

The cherub Contemplation ; 

And the mute Silence hist along, 

’Less Philomel will deign a song, 

In her sweetest, saddest plight, 

Smoothing the rugged brow of night, 
While Cynthia checks her dragon-yoke, 
Gently o’er th’ accustom’d oak ; 

Sweet bird, that shunn’st the noise of 
folly, 

Most musical, most melancholy! 

Thee, chauntress, oft the woods among 
I woo, to hear thy even-song ; 

And missing thee, I walk unseen 
On the dry smooth-shaven green, 

To behold the wandering moon, 

Riding near her highest noon, 







FIRESIDE EE CYCLOPAEDIA OF POETRY 


734 

Like one that had been led astray 
Through the heav'u’s wide pathless way ; 
And oft, as if her head she bow’d, 
Stooping through a fleecy cloud. 

Oft on a plat of rising ground, 

1 hear the far-off curfew sound, 

Over some wide-water’d shore, 

Swinging slow with sullen roar ; 

Or if the air will not permit, 

Some still removed place will lit. 

Where glowing embers through the room 
Teach light to counterfeit a gloom ; 

Far from all resort of mirth, 

Save the cricket on the hearth. 

Or the bellman’s drowsy charm, 

To bless the doors from nightly harm 
Or let my lamp at midnight hour 
lie seen in some high lonely tow’r, 

Where I may oft out watch the Bear, 

With thrice-great Hermes, or unsphere 
The spirit of Plato, to unfold 
What worlds, or what vast regions, hold 
The immortal mind, that hath forsook 
Her mansion in this fleshly nook : 

And of those demons that are found 
In lire, air, flood, or under ground, 

Whose power hath a true consent 
With planet, or with element. 

Sometime let gorgeous Tragedy 
In sceptred pall come sweeping by, 
Presenting Thebes, or Pelops’ line, 

Or the tale of Troy divine, 

Or what (though rare) of later age 
Ennobled hath the buskin’d stage. 

But, O sad virgin, that thy power 
Might raise Musaeus from his bower, 

Or bid the soul of Orpheus sing 
Such notes as, warbled to the string, 
Drew iron tears down Pluto’s cheek, 

And made Hell grant what love did seek. 
Or call up him that left half told 
The story of Cambuscan bold, 

Of Camball, and of Algarsife, 

And who had Canace to wife, 

That own’d the virtuous ring and glass, 
And of the wondrous horse of brass, 

On which the Tartar king did ride; 

And if aught else great bards beside 
In sage and solemn tunes have sung, 

Of turneys and of trophies hung, 

Of forests, and enchantments drear, 
Where more is meant than meets the ear. 


Thus Night oft see me in thy pale career, 
Till civil-suited Morn appear. 

Nor trick’d and frounced as she was wont 
With the Attic boy to hunt, 

But kerchief’d in a comely cloud, 

While rocking winds are piping loud, 

Or usher’d with a shower still 
When the gust hath blown his fill, 

Ending on the rustling leaves, 

With minute drops from off the eaves. 
And when the sun begins to fling 
His flaring beams, me, goddess, bring 
To arched walks of twilight groves, 

And shadows brown that Sylvan loves 
Of pine, or monumental oak, 

Where the rude axe with heavbd stroke 
Was never heard the nymphs to damp, 

Or fright them from their hallow’d haunt. 
There in close covert by some brook, 
Where no profaner eye may look, 

Hide me from day’s garish eye, 

While the bee w’ith honey’d thigh, 

That at her flow’ry work doth sing, 

And the waters murmuring 
i With such consort as they keep, 

Entice the dewy-feather’d sleep ; 

And let some strange, mysterious dream 
Wave at his wings in aery stream 
Of lively portraiture display’d, 

Softly on my eyelids laid. 

And as I wake sweet music breathe 
Above, about, or underneath, 

I Sent by some spirit to mortals good, 

; Or th’ unseen genius of the wood. 

I But let my due feet never fail 
To walk the studious cloisters pale,, 

And love the high-embowed roof, 

With antique pillars massy proof, 

And storied windows richly dight, 

Casting a dim religious right: 

There let the pealing organ blow, 

To the full-voiced quire below, 

In service high, and anthems clear, 

As may with sweetness, through mine ear 
Dissolve me into ecstasies, 

And bring all heaven before mine eyes. 
And may at last my weary age 
Find out the peaceful hermitage, 

The hairy gown and mossy cell, 

Where I may sit and rightly spell 
Of every star that heav’n doth show, 

I And every herb that sips the dew'; 







POEMS OF SENTIMENT. 


735 


Till old experience do attain 
To something like prophetic strain. 
These pleasures, Melancholy, give, 
And I with thee will choose to live. 

John Milton. 

My Minde to 3i e a Kingdom is. 

My minde to me a kingdom is ; 

Such perfect joy therein I finde 
As farre exceeds all earthly blisse 
That God or Nature hath assignde ; 
Though much I want, that most would 
have, 

Yet still my minde forbids to crave. 

Content I live ; this is my stay— 

I seek no more than may suffice. 

I presse to beare no haughtie sway ; 

Look, what I lack my minde supplies. 
Loe, thus I triumph like a king, 

Content with that my minde doth bring. 

I see how plentie surfets oft, 

And hastie clymbers soonest fall; 

I see that such as sit aloft 
Mishap doth threaten most of all. 

These get with toile, and keepe with feare: 
Such cares my minde could never beare. 

No princely pompe nor welthie store, 

No force to win the victorie, 

No wylie wit to salve a sore, 

No shape to winne a lover’s eye— 

To none of these I yeeld as thrall; 

For why, my minde despiseth all. 

Some have too much, yet still they crave ; 

I little have, yet seek no more. 

They arelmt poore, though much they have, 
And I am rich with little store. 

They poor, I rich ; they beg, I give; 

They lacke, I lend ; they pine, I live. 

I laugh not at another’s losse, 

I grudge not at another’s gaine ; 

No worldly wave my minde can tosse; 

I brooke that is another’s bane. 

I feare no foe, nor fawne on friend ; 
i lothe not life, nor dread mine end. 

1 joy not in no earthly blisse; 

I weigh not Cresus’ wealth a straw ; 


For care, 1 care not what it is ; 

I feare not fortune’s fatal law : 

My minde is such as may not move 
For beautie bright, or force of love. 

I wish but what I have at will ; 

I wander not to seeke for more ; 

I like the plaine, I clime no hill; 

In greatest stormes I sitte on shore, 

And laugh at them that toile in vaine 
To get what must be lost againe. 

I kisse not where I wish to kill; 

I feigne not love where most I hate ; 

I breake no sleepe to winne my will; 

I wayte not at the mightie’s gate. 

I scorne no poore, I feare no rich ; 

I feele no want, nor have too much. 

The court ne cart I like ne loath— 
Extreames are counted worst of all; 
The golden meane betwixt them both 
Dost surest sit, and feares no fall; 

This is my elioyce; for why, I finde 
No wealth is like a quiet minde. 

My wealth is health and perfect ease ; 

My conscience clere my chiefe defence; 
I never seeke by bribes to please, 

Nor by desert to give offence. 

Thus do I live, thus will I die; 

Would all did so as well as I ! 

Sir Edward Dykk. 

My Days asiong the Dead are 
Passed. 

My days among the dead are pass’d ; 

Around me I behold, 

Where’er these casual eyes are cast, 

The mighty minds of old ; 

My never-failing friends are they, 

With wdiom I converse day by day. 

With them I take delight in weal, 

And seek relief in woe; 

And while I understand and feel 
How much to them I owe, 

My cheeks have often been bedew’d 
With tears of thoughtful gratitude. 

My thoughts are with the dead; with 
them 

I live in long-past years; 






FIRESIDE ENCYCLOPAEDIA OF POETRY. 


7‘M 


Their virtues love, their faults condemn, 
Partake their hopes and fears, 

And from their lessons seek and find 
Instruction with an humble mind. 

My hopes are with the dead; ouon 
My place with them will be, 

And I with them shall travel on 
Through all futurity, 

Yet leaving here a name, I trust, 

That will not perish in the dust. 

Robert Southey. 

Thoughts in a Library. 

Speak low! tread softly through these 
halls; 

Here Genius lives enshrined ; 

Here reign, in silent majesty, 

The monarchs of the mind. 

A. mighty spirit-host they come 
From every age and clime; 

Above the buried wrecks of years 
They breast the tide of Time. 

And in their presence-chamber here 
They hold their regal state, 

And round them throng a noble train, 

The gifted and the great. 

O child of Earth ! when round thy path 
The storms of life arise, 

And when thy brothers pass thee by 
With stern, unloving eyes, 

Here shall the poets chant for thee 
Their sweetest, loftiest lays, 

And prophets wait to guide thy steps 
In Wisdom’s pleasant ways. 

Come, with these God-anointed kings 
Be thou companion here; 

And in the mighty realm of mind 
Thou shalt go forth a peer! 

Anne C. Lynch Botta. 

The Lawyer's Farewell to his 
Muse. 

As, by some tyrant's stern command, 

A wretch forsakes his native land, 

In foreign climes condemn’d to roam 
An endless exile from his home; 


Pensive he treads the destined way, 

And dreads to go, nor dares to stay ; 

Till on some neighboring mountain’s 
brow 

He stops, and turns his eyes below; 

There, melting at the well-known view, 
Drops a last tear, and bids adieu ; 

So I, thus doom’d from thee to part, 

Gay Queen of Fancy and of Art. 
Reluctant move, with doubtful mind, 

Oft stop, and often look behind. 

Companion of my tender age, 

Serenely gay, and sweetly sage, 

How blithesome we were wont to rove 
By verdant hill or shady grove, 

Where fervent bees, with humming 
voice, 

Around the honey’d oak rejoice, 

And aged elms with awful bend 
In long cathedral walks extend ! 

Lull’d by the lapse of gliding floods, 
Cheer’d by the warbling of the woods, 
How bless’d my days, my thoughts how 
free 

In sweet society with thee! 

Then all was joyous, all was young, 

And years unheeded roll’d along: 

But now the pleasing dream is o’er, 

These scenes must charm me now no 
more ; 

Lost to the fields, and torn from you,— 
Farewell!—a long, a last adieu. 

Me wrangling courts, and stubborn 
law, 

To smoke, and crowds, and cities draw: 
There selfish Faction rules the day, 

And Pride and Avarice throng the way; 
Diseases taint the murky air, 

And midnight conflagrations glare; 

Loose Revelry and Riot bold 
In frighted streets their orgies hold ; 

Or, where in silence all is drown’d, 

Fell Murder walks his lonely round; 

No room for Peace, no room for you, 
Adieu, celestial nymph, adieu! 

Shakespeare no more thy sylvan son, 
Nor all the art of Addison, 

Pope’s heaven-strung lyre, nor Waller’s 
ease, 

Nor Milton’s mighty self, must please : 
Instead of these, a formal band 
I In furs and coifs around me stand; 








POEMS OF SENTIMENT. 


737 


With sounds uncouth, and accents dry, 
That grate the soul of harmony; 

Each pedant sage unlocks his store 
Of mystic, dark, discordant lore ; 

And points with tottering hand the ways 
That lead me to the thorny maze. 

There, in a winding close retreat, 

Is Justice doom’d to fix her seat; 

There, fenced by bulwarks of the law, 

She keeps the wondering world in awe; 
And there, from vulgar sight retired, 

Like Eastern queen, is more admired. 

Oh let me pierce the secret shade 
Where dwells the venerable maid ! 

There humbly mark, with reverend awe, 
The guardian of Britannia’s law; 

Unfold with joy her sacred page, 

Th’ united boast of many an age; 

Where mix’d, yet uniform, appears 
The wisdom of a thousand years. 

In that pure spring the bottom view, 
Clear, deep, and regularly true ; 

And other doctrines thence imbibe 
Than luyk within the sordid scribe; 
Observe how parts with parts unite 
In one harmonious rule of right; 

See countless wheels distinctly tend 
By various laws to one great end: 

While mighty Alfred’s piercing soul 
Pervades and regulates the whole. 

Then welcome business, welcome strife, 
Welcome the cares, the thorns of life, 
The visage wan, the purblind sight, 

The toil by day, the lamp at night, 

The tedious forms, the solemn prate, 

The pert dispute,- the dull debate, 

The drowsy bench, the babbling hall,— 
For thee, fair Justice, welcome all! 

Thus though my noon of life be past, 

Yet let my setting sun, at last, 

Find out the still, the rural cell, 

Where sage Retirement loves to dwell! 
There let me taste the homefelt bliss 
Of innocence and inward peace; 
Untainted by the guilty bribe, 

Uncursed amid the harpy tribe; 

No orphan’s cry to wound my ear; 

My honor and my conscience clear; 

Thus may I calmly meet my end, 

Thus to the grave in peace descend. 

Sir William Blackstone. 


On First Looking into chap¬ 
man’s Homer. 

Much have I travell’d in the realms of 
gold, 

And many goodly states and kingdoms 
seen; 

Round many western islands have I been 

Which bards in fealty to Apollo hold. 

Oft of one wide expanse had I been told 

That deep-brow’d Homer ruled as his de¬ 
mesne ; 

Yet did I never breathe its pure serene 

Till I heard Chapman speak out loud and 
bold : 

Then felt I like some watcher of the skies 

When a new planet swims into his ken ; 

Or like stout Cortez when with eagle eyes 

He stared at the Pacific—and all his men 

Look’d at each other with a wild sur¬ 
mise— 

Silent, upon a peak in Darien. 

John Keats. 


A Vision upon this Conceit 
of the Faerie Queene. 

Methought I saw the grave where Laura 
lay, 

Within that temple, where the vestal 
flame 

Was wont to burn; and passing by that way, 

To see that buried dust of living fame, 

Whose tomb fair Love, and fairer Virtue 
kept, 

All suddenly I saw the Faerie Queene; 

At whose approach the soul of Petrarch 
wept, 

And, from thenceforth, those Graces were 
not seen; 

For they this Queen attended; in whose 
stead 

Oblivion laid him down on Laura’s hearse : 

Hereat the hardest stones were seen to 
bleed, 

And groans of buried ghosts the heavens 
did pierce, 

Where Homer’s spright did tremble all for 
grief, 

And cursed the access of that celestial 
thief! 


47 


Sir Walter Kaleigh. 






38 


FIRESIDE EXCYCL0PJED1A OE POETRY. 


' Ode. 

Bauds of passion and of mirth, 

Ye have left your souls on earth ! 

Have ye souls in Heaven too, 
Double-lived in regions new? 

Yes, and those of Heaven commune 
With the spheres of sun and moon ; 
With the noise of fountains wondrous, 
And the parle of voices thund’rous; 
With the whisper of Heaven’s trees 
And one another, in soft ease 
Seated on Elysian lawns 
Browsed by none hut Dian’s fawns; 
Underneath large blue-bells tented, 
Where the daisies are rose-scented, 

And the rose herself has got 
Perfume which on earth is not; 

Where the nightingale doth sing 
Not a senseless, tranced thing, 

But divine, melodious truth— 
Philosophic numbers smooth— 

Tales and golden histories 
Of Heaven and its mysteries. 

Thus ye live on high, and then 
On the earth ye live again ; 

And the souls ye left behind you 
Teach us here the way to find you, 
Where your other souls are joying, 
Never slumber’d, never cloying. 

Here your earth-born souls still speak 
To mortals, of their little week; 

Of their sorrows and delights; 

Of their passions and their spites; 

Of their glory and their shame; 

What doth strengthen and what maim. 
Thus ye teach us, every day, 

Wisdom, though fled far away. 

Bards of passion and of mirth, 

Ye have left your souls on earth ! 

Ye have souls in Heaven too, 
Double-lived in regions new! 

John Keats. 

Song. 

Still, to be neat, still to be drest, 

As you were going to a feast; 

Still to be powder’d, still perfumed, 
Lady, it is to be presumed, 

Though art’s hid causes are not found, 
All is not sweet, all is not sound. 


Give me a look, give me a face, 

That makes simplicity a grace ; 

Robes loosely flowing, hair as free— 
Such sweet neglect more taketli me 
Than all the adulteries of art; 

They strike mine eyes, but not my lieari 

Ben Jonson. 

Delight in Disorder. 

A sweet disorder in the dress 
Kindles in clothes a wantonness: 

A lawn about the shoulders thrown 
Into a fine distraction— 

An erring lace, which here and there 
Enthralls the crimson stomacher— 

A cuff neglectful, and thereby 
Ribbons to flow confusedly— 

A winning wave, deserving note, 

In the tempestuous petticoat— 

A careless shoe-string, in whose tie 
I see a wild civility,— 

Do more bewitch me than when art 
Is too precise in every part. 

Robert Herrick. 

The La chryma tor y. 

From out the grave of one whose budding 
years 

Were cropp’d by death when Rome was 
in her prime, 

1 brought the vial of his kinsman s tears, 
There placed, as was the wont of ancient 
time; 

Round me, that night, in meads of asphodel. 
The souls of th’ early dead did come and 
go, 

Drawn by that flask of grief, as by a spell, 
That long-imprison’d shower of human 
woe ; 

As round Ulysses, for the draught of blood, 
The heroes throng’d, those spirits flock’d 
to me, 

Where, lonely, w T ith that charm of tears I 
stood; 

Two, most of all, my dreaming eyes did 
see; 

The young Marcellus, young, but great 
and good, 

And Tully’s daughter mourn’d so ten¬ 
derly. Charles Tdrner. 








POEMS OF SENTIMENT. 


739 


Age and Song. 

In vain men tell us time can alter 
Old loves or make old memories falter, 

I hat with the old year the old year’s life 
closes. 

The old dew still falls on the old sweet 
flowers, 

The old sun revives the new-fledged hours, 
The old summer rears the new-born roses. 

Much more a Muse that bears upon her 
Raiment and wreath and flower of honor, 
Gather’d long since and long since woven, 
1" ades not or falls as falls the vernal 
Blossoms that bear no fruit eternal, 

By summer or winter charr’d or cloven. 

No time casts down, no time upraises 
Such loves, such memories and such praises, 
As need no grace of sun or shower, 

No saving screen from frost or thunder, 

To tend and house around and under 
The imperishable and peerless flower. 

Old thanks, old thoughts, old aspirations, 
Outlive men’s lives and lives of nations, 
Dead, but for one thing which survives—- 
The inalienable and unpriced treasure, 

The old joy of power, the old pride of 
pleasure, 

That lives in light above men’s lives. 

Algernon Charles Swinburne. 


Beauty Fades. 

Trust not, sweet soul, those curlfed waves 
of gold 

With gentle tides that on your temples 
flow, 

Nor temples spread with flakes of virgin 
snow, 

Nor snow of cheeks with Tyrian grain en¬ 
roll’d. 

Trust not those shining lights which 
wrought my woe 

When first I did their azure rays be¬ 
hold, 

Nor voice, whose sounds more strange ef¬ 
fects do show 

Than of the Thracian harper have been 
told. 


Look to this dying lily, fading rose. 

Dark hyacinth, of late whose blushing 
beams 

Made all the neighboring herbs and grass 
rejoice, 

And think how little is ’twixt life’s ex¬ 
tremes : 

The cruel tyrant that did kill those flowers 
Shall once, ah me! not spare that spring 
of yours. 

William Drummond. 

She Walks in Beauty. 

She walks in beauty like the night 
Of cloudless climes and starry skies ; 
And all that’s best of dark and bright 
| Meets in her aspect and her eyes : 

Thus mellow’d to that tender light 
Which heaven to gaudy day denies. 

One shade the more, one ray the less, 

Had half impair’d the nameless grace 
Which waves in every raven tress, 

Or softly lightens o’er her face— 

Where thoughts serenely sweet express 
How pure, how dear their dwelling- 
place. 

And on that cheek, and o’er that brow, 

So soft, so calm, yet eloquent, 

The smiles that win, the tints that glow. 

But tell of days in goodness spent, 

A mind at peace with all below, 

A heart whose love is innocent. 

Lord Byron. 


The Village Blacksmith. 

Under a spreading chestnut tree 
The village smithy stands; 

The smith, a mighty man is he, 

With large and sinewy hands ; 

And the muscles of his brawny arms 
Are strong as iron bands. 

His hair is crisp, and black, and long; 

His face is like the tan ; 

His brow is wet with honest sweat; 

He earns whate’er he can, 

And looks the whole world in the face, 
For he owes not any man. 








FIRESIDE ENCYCLOPAEDIA OF POETRY. 


?40 


Week in, week out, from morn till night, 
You can hear his bellows blow ; 

You can hear him swing his heavy sledge, 
With measured beat and slow, 

Like a sexton ringing the village bell 
When the evening sun is low. 

And children coming home from school 
Look in at the open door ; 

They love to see the flaming forge, 

And hear the bellow’s roar, 

And catch the burning sparks that fly 
Like chaff from a threshing-floor. 

He goes on Sunday to the church, 

And sits among his boys ; 

He hears the parson pray and preach, 

He hears his daughter’s voice 

Singing in the village choir, 

And it makes his heart rejoice. 

It sounds to him like her mother’s voice 
Singing in Paradise! 

He needs must think of her once more, 
How in the grave she lies; 

And with his hard, rough hand he wipes 
A tear out of his eyes. 

Toi 1 i ng—rej oicing—sorrowing—• 

Onward through life he goes : 

Each morning sees some task begin, 

Each evening sees it close ; 

Something attempted—something done, 
Has earn’d a night’s repose. 

Thanks, thanks to thee, my worthy friend, 
For the lesson thou hast taught! 

Thus at the flaming forge of Life 
Our fortunes must be wrought, 

Thus on its sounding anvil shaped 
Each burning deed and thought. 

Henry Wadsworth Longfellow. 

SONNET: THE FIRST MAN. 

What was’t awakened first the untried 
ear 

Of that sole man who was all humankind? 

Was it the gladsome welcome of the wind, 

Stirring the leaves that never yet were 
sere ? 

The four mellifluous streams which flowed 
so near. 


Their lulling murmurs all in one com¬ 
bined? 

The note of bird unnamed? The startled 
hind 

Bursting the brake, in wonder, not in fear. 
Of her new lord? Or did the holy ground 
Send forth mysterious melody to greet 
The gracious presence of immaculate feet* 
Dili viewless seraphs rustle all around, 
Making sweet music out of air as sweet? 
Or his own voice awake him with its sound ? 

Hartley Coleridge. 

Stanzas. 

And thou art dead, as young and fair 
As aught of mortal birth ; 

And form so soft, and charms so rare, 

Too soon return’d to earth ! 

Though Earth received them in her bed, 
And o’er the spot the crowd may tread 
In carelessness or mirth, 

There is an eye which could not brook 
i A moment on that grave to look. 

| I will not ask where thou Host low, 

Nor gaze upon the spot; 

There flowers or weeds at will may grow, 
So I behold them not: 

It is enough for me to prove 
That what I loved, and long must love, 
Like common earth can rot; 

To me there needs no stone to tell, 

’Tis nothing that I loved so well. 

Yet did I love thee to the last 
As fervently as thou, 

Who didst not change through all the past, 
And canst not alter now. 

The love where death has set his seal, 

Nor age can chill, nor rival steal, 

Nor falsehood disavow: 

And what were worse, thou canst not see 
Or wrong, or change, or fault in me. 

The better days of life were ours; 

The worst can be but mine; 

The sun that cheers, the storm that lowers. 

Shall never more be thine. 

The silence of that dreamless sleep 
1 envy now too much to weep ; 

Nor need I to repine 
That all those charms have pass’d away, 

I might have watch’d through long decay. 









POEMS OF SENTIMENT. 


741 


The flower in ripen’d bloom unmatch’d 
Must fall the earliest prey; 

Though by no hand untimely snatch’d, 
The leaves must drop away: 

And yet it were a greater grief 
To watch it withering, leaf by leaf, 

Than see it pluck’d to-day; 

Since earthly eye but ill can bear 
To trace the change to foul from fair. 

I know not if I could have borne 
To see thy beauties fade; 

The night that follow’d such a morn 
Had worn a deeper shade : 

Thy day without a cloud hath past, 

And thou wert lovely to the last; 

Extinguish’d, not decay’d; 

As stars that shoot along the sky 
Shine brightest as they fall from high. 

As once I wept, if I could weep, 

My tears might well be shed, 

To think I was not near to keep 
One vigil o’er thy bed ; 

To gaze, how fondly ! on thy face, 

To fold thee in a faint embrace, 

Uphold thy drooping head ; 

And show that love, however“Vain, 

Nor thou nor I can feel again. 

\ 

Vet how much less it were to gain, 
Though thou hast left me free, 

Tim loveliest things that still remain, 
Than thus remember thee! 

The all of thine that cannot die 
Through dark and dread eternity 
Returns again to me, 

And more thy buried love endears 
Than aught, except its living years. 

Loud Byron. 


Oil! SNA TCHED A WA Y IN BE A UTYS 
BLOOM. 

(hi ! snatch’d away in beauty’s bloom 
On tnee shall press no ponderous tomb; 
J’>ut on thv turf shall roses rear 
Their leaves, the earliest of the year; 
And the wild cypress wave in tender gloom : 

And oft by yon blue gushing stream 
►Shall Sorrow lean her drooping head, 


And feed deep thought with many a dream, 
And lingering pause and lightly tread : 
Fond wretch! as if her step disturb’d 
the dead! 

Away ! we know that tears are vain, 

That death nor heeds nor hears distress. 
Will this unteach us to complain? 

Or make one mourner weep the less? 
And thou—who tell’st me to forget, 

Thy looks are wan, thine eyes arc wet. 

Lord Byron. 


Thy Voice is Heard thro » 

Rolling Drums. 

Thy voice is heard thro’ rolling drums, 
That beat to battle where he stands; 
Thy face across his fancy comes, 

And gives the battle to his hands: 

A moment, while the trumpets blow, 

He sees his brood about thy knee ; 

The next, like fire he meets the foe, 

And strikes him dead for thine and thee. 

Alfred Tennyson. 


An Angel in the House. 

How sweet it were, if without feeble 
fright, 

Or dying of the dreadful beauteous sight, 

An angel came to us, and we could bear 

To see him issue from the silent air 

At evening in our room, and bend on 
ours 

His divine eyes, and bring us. from his 
bowers 

News of dear friends, and children who 
have never 

Been dead indeed—as we shall know for 
ever. 

Alas ! we think not what we daily see 

About our hearths—angels that are to 
be, 

Or may be if they will, and we prepare 
j Their souls and ours to meet in happy air; 
j A child, a friend, a wife whose soft hoar) 
sings 

In unison with ours, breeding its future 
wings. 

Leigh Hunt. 











742 


FIRESIDE ENCYCLOPAEDIA OF POETRY. 


Chorus. 

From “Atalanta in Calydon.” 

Before the beginning of years 
There came to the making of man 
Time, with a gift of tears ; 

Grief, with a glass that ran ; 

Pleasure, with pain for leaven ; 

Slimmer, with flowers that fell ; 
Remembrance, fallen from heaven ; 

And madness risen from hell; 

Strength, without hands to smite ; 

Love, that endures for a breath ; 

Night, the shadow of light, 

And life, the shadow of death. 

And the high gods took in hand 
Fire, and the falling of tears, 

And a measure of sliding sand 
From under the feet of the years ; 

And froth and drift of the sea ; 

And dust of the laboring earth ; 

And bodies of things to be 

In the houses of death and of birth ; 
And wrought with weeping and laughter, 
And fashion’d with loathing and love, 
With life before and after, 

And death beneath and above, 

For a day and a night and a morrow, 

That his strength might endure for a span 
With travail and heavy sorrow, 

The holy spirit of man. 

From the winds of the north and the south 
They gather’d as unto strife; 

They breathed upon his mouth, 

They fill’d his body with life ; 

Eyesight and speech they wrought 
For the veils of the soul therein, 

A time for labor and thought, 

A time to serve and to sin ; 

They gave him light in his ways, 

And love, and a space for delight, 

And beauty and length of days, 

And night, and sleep in the night. 

His speech is a burning fire; 

With his lips he travaileth ; 

In his heart is a blind desire, 

In his eyes foreknowledge of death ; 

He weaves, and is clothed with derision ; 

Sows, and he shall not reap ; 

His life is a watch or a vision 
Between a sleep and a sleep. 

Algernon Charles Swinburne. 


Qua Cursum Ventus. 

As ships becalm’d at eve, that lay 
With canvas drooping, side by side, 

Two towers of sail at dawn of day, 

Are scarce, long leagues apart, descried; 

When fell the night, upsprung the breeze, 
And all the darkling hours they plied, 
Nor dreamt but each the selfsame seas 
By each was cleaving, side by side: 

E’en so,—but why the tale reveal 
Of those whom, year by year unchanged, 
Brief absence join’d anew to feel, 

Astounded, soul from soul estranged ? 

At dead of night their sails were fill’d, 
And onward each rejoicing steer’d : 

Ah, neither blame, for neither will’d, 

Or wist, what first with dawn appear’d 1 

i To veer, how vain! On, onward strain, 
Brave barks ! In light, in darkness too, 
Through winds and tides one compass 
guides,— 

To that, and your own selves, be true. 

But, O blithe’breeze, and O great seas, 
Though ne’er, that earliest parting past. 
On your wide plain they join again, 
Together lead them home at last! 

One port, methought, alike they sought, 
One purpose hold where’er they fare,— 
O bounding breeze, O rushing seas, 

At last, at last, unite them there. 

Arthur Hugh Clough. 

A DURESS TO THE MUMMY IN BEE 

zoNrs Exhibition. 

And thou hast walk’d about (how strange 
a story!) 

In Thebes’ streets three thousand years 
ago, 

When the Memnonium was in all its glory, 
I And time had not begun to overthrow 
Those temples, palaces, and piles stupen¬ 
dous, 

Of which the very ruins are tremendous ? 

Speak! for thou long enough hast acted 
dummy ; 

Thou hast a tongue—come—let us heai 
its tune; 









POEMS OF SENTIMENT. 


743 


Thou’rt standing on thy legs, above ground, 
mummy ! 

Revisiting the glimpses of the moon— 

Not like thin ghosts or disembodied crea¬ 
tures, 

But with thy bones, and flesh, and limbs, 
and features. 

Tell us—for doubtless thou canst recol¬ 
lect— 

To whom should we assign the Sphinx’s 
fame ? 

Was Cheops or Cephrenes architect 

Of either pyramid that bears his name ? 

Is Pompey’s Pillar really a misnomer? 

Had Thebes a hundred gates, as sung by 
Homer ? 

Perhaps thou wert a Mason, and forbidden 

By oath to tell the secrets of thy trade— 

Then say what secret melody was hidden 

In Memnon’s statue, which at sunrise 
play’d ? 

Perhaps thou wert a priest—if so, my 
struggles 

Are vain, for priestcraft never owns its 
juggles. 

Perhaps that very hand, now pinion’d flat, 

Has hob-a-nobb’d with Pharaoh, glass 
to glass; 

Or dropp’d a half-penny in Homer’s hat; 

Or doff’d thine own to let Queen Dido 
pass; 

Or held, by Solomon’s own invitation, 

A torch at the great temple’s dedication. 

I need not ask thee if that hand, when 
arm’d, 

Has any Roman soldier maul’d and 
knuckled; 

For thou wert dead, and buried, and em¬ 
balm’d 

Ere Romulus and Remus had been 
suckled: 

Antiquity appears to have begun 

Long after thy primeval race was run. 

Thou could’st develop—if that wither’d 
tongue 

Might tell us what those sightless orbs 
have seen— 


How the world look’d when it was fresh 
and young, 

And the great deluge still had left it 
green; 

Or was it then so old that history’s pages 

Contain’d no record of its early ages ? 

Still silent! incommunicative elf! 

Art sworn to secrecy ? then keep thy 
vows; 

But prythee tell us something of thyself— 

Reveal the secrets of thy prison-house; 

Since in the world of spirits thou hast 
slumber’d— 

What hast thou seen—what strange adven¬ 
tures number’d ? 

Since first thy form was in this box ex¬ 
tended 

We have, above ground, seen some 
strange mutations ; 

The Roman empire has begun and ended— 

New worlds have risen—we have lost 
old nations; 

And countless kings have into dust been 
humbled, 

While not a fragment of thy flesh has 
crumbled. 

Didst thou not hear the pother o’er thy 
head 

When the great Persian conqueror, Cam- 
byses, 

March’d armies o’er thy tomb with thun¬ 
dering tread— 

O’erthrew Osiris, Orus, Apis, Isis; 

And shook the pyramids with fear and 
wonder, 

When the gigantic Memnon fell asunder ? 

If the tomb’s secrets may not be confess’d, 

The nature of thy private life unfold : 

A heart has tlirobb’d beneath that leathern 
breast, 

And tears adown that dusty cheek have 
roll’d; 

Have children climb’d those knees and 
kiss’d that face ? 

What was thy name and station, age and 
race ? 

Statue of flesh—Immortal of the dead ! 

Imperishable type of evanescence 1 








744 


FIRESIDE ENCYCLOPAEDIA OF POETRY. 


Posthumous man—who quitt’st thy nar¬ 
row bed, 

And standest undecay’d within our pres¬ 
ence ! 

Thou wilt hear nothing till the judgment 
morning, 

When the great trump shall thrill thee 
with its warning. 

Why should this worthless tegument en¬ 
dure, 

If its undying guest be lost for ever? 

Oh ! let us keep the soul embalm’d and 
pure 

In living virtue-—that when both must 
sever, 

Although corruption may our frame con¬ 
sume, 

The immortal spirit in the skies may 
bloom ! 

Horace Smith. 

Ode on a Grecian Urn. 

Thou still unravish’d bride of quietness! 

Thou foster-child of Silence and slow 
Time! 

Sylvan historian, who canst thus express 

A flowery tale more sweetly than our 
rhyme! 

What leaf-fringed legend haunts about 
thy shape 

Of deities or mortals, or of both, 

In Tempe or the dales of Arcady? 

What men or gods are these ? what 
maidens loath ? 

What mad pursuit? What struggle to 
escape ? 

What pipes and timbrels ? What wild 
ecstasy ? 

Heard melodies are sweet, but those un¬ 
heard 

Are sweeter; therefore, ye soft pipes, 
play on— 

Not to the sensual ear, but more endear’d, 

Pipe to the spirit ditties of no tone: 

Fair youth beneath the trees, thou canst 
not leave 

Thy song, nor ever can those trees be 
bare; 

Bold lover, never, never, canst thou 
kiss, 


Though winning near the goal; yet do not 
grieve— 

She cannot fade, though thou hast 
not thy bliss; 

For ever wilt thou love, and she be fair! 

Ah, happy, happy boughs! that cannot 
shed 

Your leaves, nor ever bid the Spring 
adieu: 

And, happy melodist, unwearied, 

For ever piping songs for ever new; 

More happy love! more happy, happy 
love! 

For ever warm and still to be enjoy’d, 
For ever panting and for ever 
young; 

All breathing human passion far above, « 

That leaves a heart high sorrowful and 
cloy’d, 

A burning forehead and a parching 
tongue. 

Who are these coming to the sacrifice? 

To what green altar, O mysterious priest, 

Lead’st thou that heifer lowing at the 
skies, 

And all her silken flanks with garlands 
drest ? 

What little town by river or sea-shore, 

Or mountain-built with peaceful citadel, 
Is emptied of its folk this pious 
morn ? 

And, little town, thy streets for evermore 

Will silent be; and not a soul, to tell 
Why thou art desolate, can e’er return. 

O Attic shape! Fair attitude! with brede 

Of marble men and maidens over¬ 
wrought, 

With forest branches and the trodden 
weed; 

Thou, silent form! dost tease us out of 
thought, 

As doth eternity. Cold pastoral! 

When old age shall this generation 
waste, 

Thou shalt remain, in midst of other 
woe 

Than ours, a friend to man, to whom 
thou say’st, 










POEMS OF SENTIMENT. 


745 


“Beauty is truth, truth beauty,”—that is 
all 

Ye know on earth, and all ye need to 
know. 

John Keats. 


The Men of Old. 

I know not that the men of old 
Were better than men now, 

Of heart more kind, of hand more bold, 
Of more ingenuous brow;. 

I heed not those who pine for force 
A ghost of time to raise, 

As if they thus could check the course 
Of these appointed days. 

Still it is true, and over-true, 

That I delight to close 
This book of life self-wise and new, 

And let my thoughts repose 
On all that humble happiness 
The world has since foregone,— 

The daylight of contentedness 
That on those faces shone! 

With rights, though not too closely scann’d, 
Enjoy’d as far as known, 

With will, by no reverse unmann’d, 

With pulse of even tone, 

They from to-day, and from to-night, 
Expected nothing more 
Than yesterday and yesternight 
Had proffer’d them before. 

To them was life a simple art 
Of duties to be done, 

A game where each man took his part, 

A race where all must run ; 

A battle whose great scheme and scope 
They little cared to know, 

Content, as men-at-arms, to cope 
Each with his fronting foe. 

Man now his virtue’s diadem 
Puts on, and proudly wears,— 

Great thoughts, great feelings, came to 
them 

Like instincts unawares; 

Blending their souls’ sublimest needs 
With tasks of every day, 

They went about their gravest deeds 
As noble boys at play. 


And what if Nature’s fearful wound 
They did not probe and bare, 

For that their spirits never swoon’d 
To watch the misery there,— 

For that their love but flow’d more fast, 
Their charities more free, 

Not conscious what mere drops they cast 
Into the evil sea. 

A man’s best things are nearest him, 

Lie close about his feet; 

It is the distant and the dim 
That we are sick to greet; 

For flowers that grow our hands beneath 
We struggle and aspire,— 

Our hearts must die, except they breathe 
The air of fresh desire. 

Yet, brothers, who up reason’s hill 
Advance with hopeful cheer,— 

Oh, loiter not, those heights are chill, 

As chill as they are clear ; 

And still restrain your haughty gaze 
The loftier that ye go, 

Remembering distance leaves a haze 
On all that lies below. 

Richard Monckton Milnes 
(Lord Houghton). 


Oh; the Pleasant Days of Old. 

Oh ! the pleasant days of old, which so of¬ 
ten people praise! 

True, they wanted all the luxuries that 
grace our modern days : 

Bare floors were strew’d with rushes—the 
walls let in the cold ; 

Oh ! how they must have shiver’d in those 
pleasant days of old ! 

Oh ! those ancient lords of old, how mag¬ 
nificent they were! 

They threw down and imprison’d kings— 
to thwart them who might dare ? 

They ruled their serfs right sternly ; they 
took from Jews their gold— 

Above both law and equity were those 
great lords of old ! 

Oh! the gallant knights of old, for their 
valor so renown’d! 

With sword and lance, and armor strong, 
they scour’d the country round; 







746 


FIRESIDE ENCYCLOPAEDIA OF POETRY. 


And whenever aught to tempt them they 
met by wood or wold, 

By right of sword they seized the prize— 
those gallant knights of old ! 

Oh! the gentle dames of old ! who, quite 
free from fear or pain, 

Could gaze on joust and tournament, and 
see their champions slain ; 

They lived on good beefsteaks and ale, 
which made them strong and bold— 

Oh! more like men than women were 
those gentle dames of old ! 

Oh! those mighty towers of old! with 
their turrets, moat, and keep, 

Their battlements and bastions, their dun¬ 
geons dark and deep. 

Full many a baron held his court within 
the castle hold; 

And many a captive languish’d there, in 
those strong towers of old. 

Oh! the troubadours of old! with their 
gentle minstrelsie 

Of hope and joy, or deep despair, which- 
e’er their lot might be— 

For years they served their lady-love ere 
they their passions told— 

Oh I wondrous patience must have had 
those troubadours of old ! 

Oh ! those blessed times of old ! with their 
chivalry and state; 

1 love to read their chronicles, which such 
brave deeds relate; 

1 love to sing their ancient rhymes, to hear 
their legends told— 

But, Heaven be thank’d ! I live not in 
those blessed times of old ! 

Frances Browne. 


is it Come? 

Is it come ? they said, on the banks of the 
Nile, 

Who look’d for the world’s long-promised 
day, 

And saw but the strife of Egypt’s toil, - 
With the desert’s sand and the granite 
gray. 


From the pyramid, temple, and treasured 
dead, 

We vainly ask for her wisdom’s plan ; 

They tell us of the tyrant’s dread— 

Yet there was hope when that day be¬ 
gan. • 

The Chaldee came, with his starry lore, 
And built up Babylon’s crown and creed; 

And brick were stamp’d on the Tigris 
shore 

With signs which our sages scarce can 
read. 

From Ninus’ temple, and Nimrod’s tower. 
The rule of the old East’s empire spread 

Unreasoning faith and unquestion’d pow¬ 
er— 

But still, Is it come ? the watcher said. 

The light of the Persian’s worshipp’d 
flame, 

The ancient bondage its splendor threw ; 

And once, on the West a sunrise came, 
When Greece to her freedom’s trust was 
true ; 

With dreams to the utmost ages dear, 
With human gods, and with god-likt 
men, 

No marvel the far-off day seem’d near 
To eyes that look’d through her laurels 
then. 

The Romans conquer’d, and revell’d too, 
Till honor, and faith, and power, were 
gone; 

And deeper old Europe’s darkness grew, 
As, wave after wave, the Goth came on. 

The gown was learning, the sword was 
law; 

The people served in the oxen’s stead ; 

But ever some gleam the watcher saw, 

And evermore, Is it come ? they said. 

Poet and Seer that question caught, 

Above the din of life’s fears and frets , 

It march’d with letters, it toil’d witn 
thought, 

Through schools and creeds which the 
earth forgets. 

And statesmen trifle, and priests deceive, 
And traders barter our world away— 

Yet hearts to that golden promise cleave, 
And still,at times, Is it come? they say 







POEMS OF SENTIMENT. 


747 


The days of the nations bear no trace 
Of all the sunshine so far foretold; 

The cannon speaks in the teacher’s place— 
The age is weary with work and gold; 
And high hopes wither, and memories 
wane; 

On hearths and altars the fires are dead; 
But that brave faith hath not lived in 
vain— 

And this is all that our watcher said. 

Frances Browne. 

Content. A Pastoral. 

O’er moorlands and mountains, rude, bar¬ 
ren, and bare, 

As ’wilder’d and wearied I roam, 

A gentle young shepherdess sees my despair 
And leads me—o’er lawns—to her home: 
Yellow sheaves from rich Ceres her cottage 
had crown’d, 

Green rushes were strew’d on her floor, 
Her casement sweet woodbines crept wan¬ 
tonly round, 

And deck’d the sod seats at her door. 

We sate ourselves down to a cooling repast, 
Fresh fruits! and she cull’d me the best; 
While thrown from my guard by some 
glances she cast, 

Love slyly stole into my breast! 

I told my soft wishes; she sweetly replied, 
(Ye virgins, her voice was divine!) 

I’ve rich ones rejected, and great ones 
denied, 

But take me, fond shepherd—I’m thine. 

Her air was so modest, her aspect so meek; 

So simple, yet sweet were her charms! 

I kiss’d the ripe roses that glow’d on her 
cheek, 

And lock’d the loved maid in my arms. 
Now jocund together we tend a few sheep, 
And if, by yon prattler, the stream, 
Reclined on her bosom, I sink into sleep, 
Her image still softens my dream. 

Together we range o’er the slow-rising hills, 
Delighted with pastoral views, 

Or rest on the rock whence the streamlet 
distils, 

And point out new themes for my Muse. 


To pomp or proud titles she ne’er did as¬ 
pire, 

The damsel’s of humble descent; 

The cottager, Peace, is well known for her 
sire, 

And shepherds have named her Content. 

John Cunningham. 

Sonnet Written on a Blank 
Leaf of Dug dale’s Monasticon. 

Deem not devoid of elegance the sage, 

By Fancy’s genuine feelings unbeguiled, 
Of painful pedantry the poring child, 

Who turns of these proud domes the his¬ 
toric page, 

Now sunk by Time and Henry’s fiercer rage. 
Think’st thou the warbling Muses never 
smiled 

On his lone hours? Ingenuous views en¬ 
gage 

His thoughts, on themes, unclassic falsely 
styled, 

Intent. While cloistered Piety displays 
Her mouldering roll, the piercing eye ex¬ 
plores 

New manners, and the pomp of elder days, 
Whence culls the pensive bard his pictured 
stores, 

Nor rough nor barren are the winding ways 
Of hoar Antiquity, but strewn with flowers, 
Thomas Warton. 


Give me the Old— 

Old Wine to Drink, Old Wood to Burn, 
Old Books to Read, and Old Friend? 
to Converse with. 

Old wine to drink !—• 

Ay, give the slippery juice 
That drippeth from the grape thrown loose 
Within the tun ; 

Pluck’d from beneath the cliff 
Of sunny-sided Teneriffe, 

And ripen’d ’neath the blink 
Of India’s sun ! 

Peat whiskey hot, 

Temper’d with well-boil’d water f 
These make the long night shorter,— 
Forgetting not 

, Good stout old English porter. 








748 


FIRESIDE ENCYCLOPAEDIA OF POETRY. 


Old wood to burn !— 

Ay, bring the bill-side beech 
From where the owlets meet and screech, 
And ra vens croak ; 

The crackling pine, and cedar sweet; 

Bring too a clump of fragrant peat, 

Dug ’neatli the fern; 

The knotted oak, 

A fagot too, perhap, 

Whose bright flame, dancing, winking, 
Shall light us at our drinking; 

While the oozing sap 
Shall make sweet music to our thinking. 

Old books to read !— 

Ay, bring those nodes of wit, 

The brazen-clasp’d, the vellum writ, 
Time-honor’d tomes! 

The same my sire scann’d before, 

The same my grandsire thumbed o’er, 

The same his sire from college bore, 

The well-earn’d meed 
Of Oxford’s domes: 

Old Homer blind, 

Old Horace, rake Anacreon, by 
Old Tully, Plautus, Terence lie; 

Mort Arthur’s olden minstrelsie, 

Quaint Burton, quainter Spenser, ay ! 

And Gervase Markham’s venerie— 

Nor leave behind 

The Holve Book by which we live and die. 

Old friends to talk !—- 
Ay, bring those chosen few, 

The wise, the courtly, and the true, 

So rarely found; 

Him for my wine, him for my stud, 

Him for my easel, distich, bud 
In mountain-walk! 

Bring Walter good: 

With soulful Fred ; and learned Will, 

And thee, my alter ego (dearer still 
For every mood). 

These add a bouquet to my wine! 

These add a sparkle to my pine! 

If these I tine, 

Can books, or fire, or wine be good ? 

Robert Hinckley Messinger. 

Tiie Good Time Coming. 

There’s a good time coming, boys, - 
A good time coming: 

We may not live to see the day, 

But earth shall glisten in the ray 
Of the good time coming. 


Cannon-balls may aid the truth, 

But thought’s a weapon stronger; 
We’ll win our battle by its aid;— 

Wait a little longer. 

There’s a good time coming, boys, 

A good time coming: 

The pen shall supersede the sword, 

And Right, not Might, shall be the lord 
In the good time coming. 

Worth, not Birth, shall rule mankind, 
And be acknowledged stronger; 

The proper impulse has been given;— 
Wait a little longer. 

There’s a good time coming, boys, 

A good time coming: 

War in all men’s eyes shall be 
A monster of iniquity 
In the good time coming. 

Nations shall not quarrel then, 

To prove which is the stronger; 

Nor slaughter men for glory’s sake;— 
Wait a little longer. 

There’s a good time coming, boys, 

A good time coming : 

Hateful rivalries of creed 
Shall not make their martyrs bleed 
In the good time coming. 

Religion shall be shorn of pride, 

And flourish all the stronger; 

And Charity shall trim her lamp;— 
Wait a little longer. 

There’s a good time coming, boys, 

A good time coming: 

The people shall be temperate, 

And shall love instead of hate, 

In the good time coming. 

They shall use, and not abuse, 

And make all virtue stronger;— 

The reformation has begun ;— 

Wait a little longer. 

There’s a good time coming, boys, 

A good time coming: 

Let us aid it all we can, 

Every woman, every man, 

The good time coming. 

Smallest helps, if rightly given, 

Make the impulse stronger;— 

’Twill be strong enough one day ;— 
Wait a little longer. 

Charles Mack ay. 









POEMS OF SENTIMENT 


749 


A Petition to Time. 

Touch us gently, Time! 

Let us glide adown thy stream 
Gently,—as we sometimes glide 
Through a quiet dream ! 

Humble voyagers are we, 

Husband, wife, and children three,— 
(One is lost,—an angel, fled 
To the azure overhead). 

Touch us gently, Time! 

We’ve not proud nor soaring wings; 
Our ambition, our content, 

Lies in simple things. 

Humble voyagers are we 
O’er life’s dim, unsounded sea, 

Seeking only some calm clime ;— 
Touch us gently, gentle Time! 

Bryan Waller Procter 
(Barry Cornwall). 


The Aged Man-at-Arms. 

His golden locks time hath to silver turn’d; 

O time too swift, O swiftness never 
ceasing! 

His youth ’gainst time and age hath ever 
spurn’d, 

But spurn’d in vain; youth waneth by 
increasing: 

Beauty, strength, youth, are flowers but 
fading seen, 

Duty, faith, love, are roots, and ever green. 

His helmet now shall make a hive for 
bees, 

And, lovers’ sonnets turn’d to holy 
psalms, 

A man-at-arms must now serve on his 
knees, 

And feed on prayers, which are old 
age’s alms ; 

But though from court to cottage he de¬ 
part, 

His saint is sure of his unspotted heart. 

And when he saddest sits in homely cell, 

He’ll teach his swains this carol for a 
song: 

“ Bless’d be the hearts that wish my sov¬ 
ereign well, 

Cursed be the souls that think her any 
wrong!” 


Goddess, allow this aged man his right, 

To be your beadsman now that was your 
knight. 

George Peels. 

The One Gray Hair. 

The wisest of the wise 
Listen to pretty lies, 

And love to hear ’em told ; 

Doubt not that Solomon 
Listen’d to many a one,— 

Some in his youth, and more when he 
grew old. 

I never-sat among 

The choir of Wisdom’s song, 

But pretty lies loved 1 
As much as any king— 

When youth was on the wing, 

And (must it then be told?) when youth 
had quite gone by. 

Alas! and 1 have not 
The pleasant hour forgot, 

When one pert lady said, 

“ O Walter ! I am quite 
Bewilder’d with affright! 

I see (sit quiet now!) a white hair on your 
head!” 

Another, more benign, 

Snipt it away from mine, 

And in her own dark hair 
Pretended it was found. . . . 

She lept, and twirl’d it round. 

Fair as she was, she never was so fair. 

Walter Savage Candor. 

-»o» - - 

pm Growing old. 

My days pass pleasantly away, 

My nights are bless’d with sweetest 
sleep; 

I feel no symptoms of decay, 

I have no cause to mourn nor weep ; 

My foes are impotent and shy, 

My friends are neither false nor cold, 
And yet, of late, I often sigh,— 

I’m growing old! 

My growing talk of olden times, 

My growing thirst for early news 













FIRESIDE ENCYCLOPAEDIA OF POETRY. 


750 


My growing apathy for rhymes, 

My growing love for easy" shoes, 

My growing hate of crowds and noise, 

My growing fear of taking cold, 

All whisper, in the plainest voice, 

I’m growing old! 

I’m growing fonder of my staff, 

I’m growing dimmer in the eyes, 

I’m growing fainter in my laugh, 

I’m growing deeper in my sighs, 

I’m growing careless of' my dress, 

I’m growing frugal of my gold, 

I’m growing wise, I’m growing—yes— 

I’m growing old! 

I see it in my changing taste, 

I see it in my changing hair, 

I see it in my growing waist, 

I see it in my growing heir; 

A thousand signs proclaim the truth, 

As plain as truth was ever told, 

That even in my r vaunted youth 
I’m growing old! 

Ah me ! my very laurels breathe 
The tale in my reluctant ears; 

And every boon the Hours bequeath 
But makes me debtor to the Years; 

E’en Flattery’s honey’d words declare 
The secret she would fain withhold, 

And tells me in “ How young you are!” 

I’m growing old! 

Thanks for the years whose rapid flight 
My sombre muse too sadly sings; 

Thanks for the gleams of golden light 
That tint the darkness of their wings,— 
The light that beams from out the sky", 
Those heavenly mansions to unfold, 
Where all are blest, and none may sigh, 

“ I’m growing old !” 

John G. Saxe. 

Sonnet. 

To me, fair friend, you never can be old, 
For as you were, when first your eye I I 
eyed, 

Such seems your beauty still. Three win- j 
ters cold 

Have from the forests shook three sum¬ 
mers’ pride; 


I Three beauteous springs to yellow autumn 
turn’d, 

In process of the seasons have I seen, 

Three April perfumes in three hot Junes 
burn’d, 

Since first I saw you fresh, which yet are 
green. 

Ah ! y"et doth beauty, like a dial-hand, 

Steal from his figure, and no pace per¬ 
ceived ; 

So your sweet hue, which methinks still 
doth stand, 

Hath motion, and mine eye may be de¬ 
ceived : 

For fear of which, hear this, thou age un¬ 
bred,— 

Ere you were born was beauty’s summer 
dead. 

William Shakespeare. 

Sonnet. 

When I do count the clock that tells the 
time, 

And see the brave day sunk in hideous 
night; 

When I behold the violet past prime, 

And sable curls all silver’d o’er with 
white; 

When lofty trees I see barren of leaves, 

Which erst from heat did canopy" the herd, 

And Summer’s green all girded up in 
sheaves, 

Borne on the bier with white and bristly 
beard; 

Then, of thy beauty" do I question make, 

That thou among the wastes of time 
must go, 

Since sweets and beauties do themselves 
forsake, 

And die as fast as they see others grow : 

And nothing ’gainst Time’s scythe can 
make defence, 

Save breed, to brave him, when he takes 
thee hence. 

William Shakespeare. 


Sonnet. 

Not marble, nor the gilded monuments 
Of princes, shall outlive this powerful 
rhyme; 







POEMS OF SENTIMENT. 


But you shall shine more bright in these 
contents 

Than unswept stone, besmear’d with 
sluttish time. 

When wasteful war shall statues overturn, 
And broils root out the work of ma- j 
sonrv, 

Nor Mars his sword, nor war’s quick tire j 
shall burn 

The '.iving record of your memory. 

'Grainst death and all-oblivious enmity 
Shall you pace forth: your praise shall j 
still find room 

Even in the eyes of all posterity, 

That wear this world out to the ending [ 
doom. 

So, till the judgment that yourself arise, 

You live in this, and dwell in lovers’ eyes. 

William Shakespeare. 

Sonnet. 

Oh, how much more doth beauty beau- j 
teous seem, 

7 # | 
By that sweet ornament which truth j 

doth give! 

The rose looks fair, but fairer we it deem 
For that sweet odor which doth in it live. 

The canker blooms have full as deep a dye, 
As the perfumed tincture of the roses ; 

Hang on such thorns, and play as wantonly 
When summer’s breath their masked 
buds discloses; 

But, for their virtue only is their show, 
They live unwoo’d, and unrespected fade ; 

Die to themselves. Sweet roses do not so; 
Of their sweet deaths are sweetest odors 
made: 

And so of you, beauteous and lovely youth, 

When that shall “fade, my verse distils 
your truth. 

William Shakespeare. 


Sonnet. 

When to the sessions of sweet silent 
thought. 

I summon up remembrance of things 
past, 

I sigh the lack of many a thing I sought, 
And with old woes new wail my dear 
time's waste. 


7ol 


Then, can I drown an eye, unused to flow, 
For precious friends hid in death’s date¬ 
less night, 

And weep afresh love’s long-since cancell’d 
woe, 

And moan th’ expense of many a van¬ 
ish’d sight. 

Then can I grieve at grievances foregone, 
And heavily from woe to woe tell o’er 

The sad account of fore-bemoaned moan, 
Which I new pay, as if not paid lie- 
fore ; 

But if the while I think on thee, dear 
friend, 

All losses are restored, and sorrows end. 

William Shakespeare. 


Sonnet. 

Like as the waves make toward, the peb 
bled shore 

So do our minutes hasten to their end : 

Each changing place with that which 
goes before, 

In sequent toil all forward do contend. 

Nativity once in the main of light 
Crawls to maturity, wherewith being 
crown’d, 

Crooked eclipses ’gainst his glory fight, 
And Time that gave, doth now his gii„ 
confound. 

Time doth transfix the flourish set on 
youth, 

And delves the parallels in beauty’s 
brow; 

Feeds on the rarities of Nature’s truth, 
And nothing stands but for his scythe to 
mow. 

And yet, to times in hope, my verse shall 
stand 

Praising thy worth, despite his cruel hand. 

William Shakespeare. 


Sonnet. 

Poor Soul, the centre of my sinful earth, 
Fool’d by those rebel powers that thee 
array, 

Why dost thou pine within, and suffer 
dearth, 

Painting thy outward walls so costlj 
gay? 






752 


FIRESIDE ENCYCLOPAEDIA OF POETRY. 


Why so large cost, having so short a lease, 
Dost thou upon thy fading mansion 
spend ? 

Shall worms, inheritors of this excess, 

Eat up thy charge ? is this thy body’s 
end? 

Then, Soul, live thou upon thy servant’s 
loss, 

And let that pine to aggravate thy store; 

Buy terms divine in selling hours of dross ; 
Within be fed, without be rich no 
more:— 

So shalt thou feed on death, that feeds on 
men, 

And death (mce dead, there’s no more dy¬ 
ing then. 

William Shakespeare. 

Sonnet. 

They that have power to hurt, and will 
do none, 

That do not do the thing they most do 
show, 

Who, moving others, are themselves as 
stone, 

Unmovfed, cold, and to temptation 
slow,— 

They rightly do inherit Heaven’s graces, 
And husband Nature’s riches from ex¬ 
pense ; 

They are the lords and owners of their 
faces, 

Others, but stewards of their excellence. 

The summer’s flower is to the summer 
sweet, 

Though to itself it only live and die; 

But if that flower with base infection meet, 
The basest weed outbraves his dignity : 

For sweetest things turn sourest by their 
deeds; 

Lilies that fester smell far worse than weeds. 

William Shakespeare. 

Awakening Song. 

Fly hence, shadows, that do keep 
Watchful sorrows, charmed in sleep ! 
Though the eyes be overtaken, 

Yet the heart doth ever waken 
Thoughts, chained up in busy snares 
Of continual woes and cares: 


Love and griefs are so exprest, 

As they rather sigh than rest. 

Fly hence, shadows, that do keep 
Watchful sorrows, charmed in sleep. 

John Ford. 

To the Muses. 

Whether on Ida’s shady brow 
Or in the chambers of the East, 

The chambers of the sun, that now, 

From ancient melody have ceased ; 

Whether in heaven ye wander fair 
Or the green corners of the earth, 

Or the blue regions of the air, 

Where the melodious winds have birth; 

Whether on crystal rocks ye rove, 
Beneath the bosom of the sea 
Wandering in many a coral grove, 

Fair Nine, forsaking Poetry; 

How have you left the ancient love 
That bards of old enjoyed in you! 

The languid strings do scarcely move, 

The sound is forced, the notes are few! 

William Bi.ake. 

To Music ; to Becalm His Bevel 

Charm me asleep, and melt me so, 
With thy delicious numbers, 

That being ravished, hence I go 
Away in easy slumbers. 

Ease my sick head, 

And make my bed, 

Thou power that canst sever 
From me this ill, 

And quickly still, 

Though thou not kill 
My fever. 

Thou sweetly canst convert the same 
From a consuming fire, 

Into a gentle-licking flame, 

And make it thus expire. 

Then make me weep 
My pains asleep, 

And give me such reposes, 

That I, poor I, 

May think thereby, 

I live, and die 
’Mongst roses. 







POEMS OF SENTIMENT. 


753 


Fall on me like a silent dew 
Or like those maiden showers, 
Which, by the peep of day, do strew 
A baptism o’er the flowers. 

Melt, melt my pains, 

With thy soft strains, 

That having ease me given, 

With full delight, 

I leave this light, 

And take my flight 
For heaven. 

Robert Herrick. 

The Last Leaf. 

I saw him once before, 

As he pass’d by the door; 

And again 

The pavement-stones resound 
As he totters o’er the ground 
With his cane. 

They say that in his prime, 

Ere the pruning-knife of Time 
Cut him down, 

Not a better man was found 
By the crier on his round 
Through the town. 

But now he walks the streets, 

And he looks at all he meets 
Sad and wan; 

And he shakes his feeble head, 

That it seems as if he said, 

“ They are gone.” 

The mossy marbles rest 
On the lips that he has press’d 
In their bloom ; 

And the names he loved to hear 
Have been carved for many a year 
On the tomb. 

My grandmamma has said— 

Poor old lady ! she is dead 
. Long ago— 

That he had a Roman nose, 

And his cheek was like a rose 
In the snow. 

But now his nose is thin, 

And it rests upon his chin 
Like a staff; 

And a crook is in his back, 

And a melancholy crack 
In his laugh. 

48 


I know it is a sin 
For me to sit and grin 
At him here, 

But the old three-corner’d hat, 

And the breeches,—and all that. 

Are so queer! 

And if I should live to be 
The last leaf upon the tree 
In the spring, 

Let them smile, as I do now, 

At the old forsaken bough 
Where I cling. 

Oliver Wendell Holmes. 

Ode on Solitude. 

Happy the man, whose wish and care 
A few paternal acres bound, 

Content to breathe his native air 
In his own ground. 

Whose herds with milk, whose fields with 
bread, 

Whose flocks supply him with attire; 
Whose trees in summer yield him shade, 
In winter, fire. 

Blest, who can unconcern’dly find 
Hours, days, and years, slide soft away 
In health of body, peace of mind, 

Quiet by day, 

Sound sleep by night; study and ease 
Together mix’d; sweet recreation, 

And innocence, which most does please 
With meditation. 

Thus let me live, unseen, unknown; 

Thus unlamented let me die ; 

Steal from the world, and not a stone 
Tell where I lie. 

Alexander Popf, 

TO MY PICTURE. 

When age hath made me what I am not 
now, 

And every wrinkle tells me where the 
plough 

Of Time hath furrow’d; when an ice shall 
flow 

Through every vein, and all my head be 
snow; 






754 


FIRESIDE ENCYCLOPAEDIA OF POETRY. 


When Death displays his coldness in my 
cheek, 

And I myself in my own picture seek, 

Not finding what I am, but what I was, 

In doubt which to believe—this or my 
glass; 

Yet though I alter, this remains the same 
As it was drawn, retains the primitive i 
frame 

And first complexion; here will still be seen 
Blood on the cheek and down upon the chin; 
Here the smooth brow will stay, the lively 
eye, 

The ruddy lip, and hair of youthful dye. 
Behold what frailty we in man may see, 
Whose shadow is less given to change than 
he! 

Thomas Randolph. 

' 

Crabbed Age and Youth. 

Crabbed age and youth 
Cannot live together; 

Y r outh is full of pleasance, 

Age is full of care; 

Y T outh like summer morn, 

Age like winter weather; 

Youth like summer brave, 

Age like winter bare. 

Youth is full of sport, 

Age’s breath is short; 

Youth is nimble, age is lame; 

Youth is hot and bold, 

Age is weak and cold ; 

Youth is wild, and age is tame. 

Age, I do abhor thee, 

Youth, I do adore thee; 

Oh, my love, my love is young! 

Age, I do defy thee; 

O sweet shepherd ! hie thee, 

For methinks thou stay’st too long. 

William Shakespeare. 


Life. 

I made a posy, while the day ran by : 
Here will I smell my remnant out, and tie 
My life within this band. 

But time did beckon to the flowers, and 
they 

By noon most cunningly did steal away, 
And wither’d in my hand. 


My hand was next to them, and then my 
heart; 

I took, without more thinking, in good 
part, 

Time’s gentle admonition ; 

Who did so sweetly death’s sad taste con¬ 
vey, 

Making my mind to smell my fatal day, 
Yet sugaring the suspicion. 

Farewell, dear flowers, sweetly your time 
ye spent, 

Fit, while ye lived, for smell or ornament, 
And after death for cures. 

I follow straight without complaints or 
grief, 

Since, if my scent be good, I care not if 
It be as short as yours. 

George Herbert. 


SONNET: No TRUST IN TIME. 

Look, how the flower which ling'ringly 
doth fade, 

The morning's darling late, the summer’s 
queen, 

Spoil'd of that juice which kept it fresh 
and green. 

As high as it did raise, hows low the 
head: 

Right so the pleasures of my life being 
dead, 

Or in their contraries but only seen, 

With swifter speed declines than erst it 
spread, 

And (blasted) scarce now shows what it 
hath been. 

As doth the pilgrim, therefore, whom the 
night 

By darkness would imprison on his way, 

Think on thy home (my soul) and think 
aright. 

Of what’s yet left thee of life’s wasting 
day; 

The sun posts westward, pass&d is thy 
morn, 

And twice it is not given thee to be born. 

William Drummond. 








POEMS OF SENTIMENT. 


755 


The Bells. 


Hear the sledges with the bells,— 
Silver bells,— 

What a world of merriment their melody 
foretells! 

How they tinkle, tinkle, tinkle, 

In the icy air of night! 

While the stars that oversprinkle 
All the heavens seem to twinkle 

With a crystalline delight,— 

Keeping time, time, time, 

In a sort of Runic rhyme, 

To the tintinnabulation that so musically 
wells 

From the bells, bells, bells, bells, 

Bells, bells, bells,— 

From the jingling and the tinkling of the 
bells. 

ii. 

Hear the mellow wedding-bells,— 
Golden bells! 

What a world of happiness their harmony 
foretells! 

Through the balmy air of night 

How they ring out their delight! 
From the molten-golden notes, 

And all in tune, 

What a liquid ditty floats 
To the turtle-dove that listens while she 
gloats 

On the moon ! 

Oh, from out the sounding cells 

What a gush of euphony voluminously 
wells! 

How it swells! 

How it dwells 

On the Future ! how it tells 
Of the rapture that impels 
To the swinging and the ringing 
Of the bells, bells, bells, 

Of the bells, bells, bells, bells, 

Bells, bells, bells,— 

To the rhyming and the chiming of the 
bells. 

in. 

Hear the loud alarum-bells,— 

Brazen bells! 

What a tale of terror, now, their turbu- 
lency tells 1 


In the startled ear of night 
Flow they scream out their affright! 
Too much horrified to speak, 

They can only shriek, shriek, 

Out of tune, 

In the clamorous appealing to the mercy 
of the fire, 

In a mad expostulation with the deaf and 
frantic fire 

Leaping higher, higher, higher, 
With a desperate desire, 

And a resolute endeavor, 

Now—now to sit or never, 

By the side of the pale-faced moon. 
Oh the bells, bells, bells, 

What a tale their terror tells 
Of despair! 

How they clang and clash and roar 1 
What a horror they outpour 
On the bosom of the palpitating air ! 
Yet the ear it fully knows, 

By the twanging, 

And the clanging, 

How the danger ebbs and flows ; 
Yet the ear distinctly tells, 

In the jangling, 

And the wrangling. 

How the danger sinks and swells, 
By the sinking or the swelling in the anger 
of the bells,— 

Of the bells,— 

Of the bells, bells, bells, bells, 

Bells, bells, bells,— 

In the clamor and the clangor of the bells ! 
IV. 

Hear the tolling of the bells,— 

Iron bells! 

What a world of solemn thought ■/heir 
monody compels! 

In the silence of the night, 

How we shiver with affright 
At the melancholy menace of their tone; 
For every sound that floats 
From the rust within their throats 
Is a groan. 

And the people,—ah, the people,— 
They that dwell up in the steeple, 

All alone, 

And who tolling, tolling, tolling, 

In that muffled monotone, 








76t> 


FIRESIDE ENCYCLOPEDIA OF POETRY. 


Feel a glory in so rolling 
On the human heart a stone— 
They are neither man nor woman,— 
They are neither brute nor human,— 
They are ghouls: 

And their king it is who tolls; 

And he rolls, rolls, rolls, 

Rolls, 

A piean from the bells! 

And his merry bosom swells 
With the paean of the bells! 

And he dances and he yells; 

Keeping time, time, time, 

In a sort of Runic rhyme, 

To the paean of the bells,— 

Of the bells: 

Keeping time, time, time, 

In a sort of Runic rhyme, 

To the throbbing of the bells,— 
Of the bells, bells, bells,— 

To the sobbing of the bells; 
Keeping time, time, time, 

As he knells, knells, knells, 

In a happy Runic rhyme, 

To the rolling of the bells,— 

Of the bells, bells, bells,— 

To the tolling of the bells, 

Of the bells, bells, bells, bells,— 
Bells, bells, bells,— 

To the moaning and the groaning of the 
bells. 

Edgar Allan Toe. 

-o- 

Sonnet on Sleep. 

Come sleep, O sleep! the certain knot 
of peace, 

The baiting-place of wit, the balm of 
woe; 

The poor man’s wealth, the prisoner’s 
release. 

The indifferent judge between the high 
and low! 

With shield of proof, shield me from out 
the prease 

.Of those fierce darts Despair doth at 
me throw. 

Oh make in me those civil wars to cease; 

I will good tribute pay if thou do so. 

Take thou of me smooth pillows, sweet¬ 
est bed. 

A chamber deaf to noise and blind to 
light, 


A rosy garland and a weary head; 

And if these things, as being thine by 
right, 

Move not thy heavy grace, thou shall in 
me, 

Livelier than elsewhere, Stella’s image 
see. 

Sir Philip Sidnev. 
-o- 

Sonnet. 

Sweet is the rose, but grows upon a 
brere; 

Sweet is the juniper, but sharp his 
bough; 

Sweet is the eglantine, but pricketh near, 

Sweet is the flrbloom, but his branches 
rough; 

Sweet is the Cyprus, but his rind is 
tough; 

Sweet is the nut, but bitter is his pill: 

Sweet is the broom-flower, but yet sour 
enough; 

And sweet is moly, but his root is ill ; 

So every sweet with sour is temper'd 
still, 

That maketh it be coveted the more: 

For easy things that may be got at will 

Most sorts of men do set but little 
store. 

Why then should I account of little pain 

That endless pleasure shall -unto me 
gain? 

Edmund Spenser. 
-o- 

A Lament. 

O world! O Life! O Time! 

On whose last steps I climb. 

Trembling at that where I had stood 
before; 

When will return the glory of your 
prime? 

No more—oh never more! 

* 

Out of the day and night 

A joy has taken flight: 

Fresh spring, and summer, and win¬ 
ter hoar 

Move my faint heart with grief, but 
with delight 

No more—oh never more! 

Fercv Bxsshh Shellet. 
















'/ifl 

wmor^ I 

mm! |f w; 




■/ '*35 




ANN HATHAWAY’S COTTAGE 

Ann Hathaway’s cottage still stands in Stratford-on-Avon as a memorial 
to the greatness of her husband, William Shakespeare. 
















SHAKESPEARE’S HOME 

In his house at Stratford-on-Avon are preserved many relics of the great poet’s home life, and the spot 

is visited each year by multitudes of tourists. 


















POEMS OF SENTIMENT. 


757 


The Red River Voyageur. 

Out and in the river is winding 
The links of its long, red chain, 
Through belts of dusky pine-laud 
And gusty leagues of plain. 

Only, at times, a smoke-wreath 

With the drifting cloud-rack joins,— 
The smoke of the hunting-lodges 
Of the wild Assiniboins! 

Drearily blows the north wind 
From the laud of ice and snow; 

The eyes that look are weary, 

And heavy the hands that row. 

And with one foot on the water. 

And one upon the shore, 

Tlie Angel of Shadow gives warning 
That day shall be no more. 

Is it the clang of wild-geese, 

Is it the Indian’s yell, 

That lends to the voice of the north wind 
The tones of a far-off bell? 

The voyageur smiles as he listens 
To the sound that grows apace; 

Well he knows the vesper ringing 
Of the bells of St. Boniface,— 

The bells of the Roman Mission, 

That call from their turrets twain 
To the boatman on the river, 

To the hunter on the plain! 

Even so in our mortal journey 
The bitter north winds blow, 

And thus upon life’s Red River 
Our hearts, as oarsmen, row. 

And when the Angel of Shadow 
Rests his feet on wave and shore, 

And our eyes grow dim with watching 
And our hearts faint at the oar, 

Happy is he who heareth 
The signal of his release 
In the bells of the Holy City, 

The chimes of eternal peace! 

John Greenleaf Whittier. 


Footsteps of Angels. 

When the hours of day are number'd. 
And the voices of the night 
Wake the better soul that slumber’d 
To a holy, calm delight; 

Ere the evening lamps are lighted 
And, like phantoms grim and tall, 
Shadows from the fitful firelight 
Dance upon the parlor wall; 

Then the forms of the departed 
Enter at the open door: 

The beloved, the true-hearted, 

Come to visit me once more. 

He, the young and stroug, who cherish’d 
Noble longings for the strife, 

By the roadside fell and perish’d, 

Weary with the march of life! 

They, the holy ones and weakly. 

Who the cross of suffering bore, 

Folded their pale hands so meekly, 
Spake with us on earth no more! 

And with them the Being Beauteous 
Who unto my youth was given, 

More than all things else to love me, 
And is now a saint in Heaven. 

With a slow and noiseless footstep 
Comes that messenger divine. 

Takes the vacant chair beside me, 

Lays her gentle hand in mine. 

And she sits and gazes at me 
With those deep and tender eyes. 

Like the stars, so still and saint-like, 
Looking downward from the skies. 

Utter'd not, yet comprehended. 

Is the spirit's voiceless prayer. 

Soft rebukes, in blessings ended, 
Breathing from her lips of air. 

Oh, though oft depress’d and lonely, 

All my fears are laid aside. 

If I but remember only 

Such as these have lived and died! 

Henry Wadsworth Longfellow. 





758 


FIRESIDE ENCYCLOPAEDIA OF POETRY. 


The House is Dark and Dreary. 

The house is dark and dreary, 

And my heart is full of gloom; 

But out of doors, in the blessed air, 

The sun is warm, the sky is fair, 

And the flowers are still in bloom. 

A moment ago in the garden 
1 scattered the shining dew: 

The wind was soft in the swaying trees, 
The morning-glories were full of bees, 

And straight in my face they flew ! 

Aet I left them unmolested, 

Draining their honey-wine, 

And entered the weary house again, 

To sit, as now, by a bed of pain, 

With a fevered hand in mine. 

Richard Henry Stoddard. 


Excelsior. 

The shades of night were falling fast, 
As through an Alpine village pass’d 
A youth, who bore, ’mid snow and ice, 

A banner, with the strange ’"vice— 
Excelsior! 

His brow was sad ; his eye beneath 
Flash’d like a falchion from its sheath ; 
And like a silver clarion rung 
The accents of that unknown tongue— 
Excelsior! 

In happy homes he saw the light 
Of household tires gleam warm and 
bright: 

Above, the spectral glaciers shone, 

And from his lips escaped a groan— 
Excelsior! 

“Try not the pass,” the old man said : 

“ Dark lowers the tempest overhead ; 

The roaring torrent is deep and wide!” 
And loud that clarion voice replied, 
Excelsior! 

* Oh stay,” the maiden said, “ and rest 
Thy weary head upon this breast!” 

A tear stood in his bright blue eye, 

But still he answer’d with a sigh, 
Excelsior! 


“ Beware the pine tree’s wither’d branch.’ 
Beware the awful avalanche 1” 

This was the peasant’s last good-night: 
A voice replied, far up the height, 
Excelsior! 

At break of day, as heavenward 
The pious monks of St. Bernard 
Utter’d the oft-repeated prayer, 

A voice cried through the startled air, 
Excelsior! 

A traveller, by the faithful hound, 

Half buried in the snow was found, 

Still grasping in his hand of ice 
That banner with the strange device, 
Excelsior! 

There in the twilight cold and gray, 
Lifeless, but beautiful, he lay, 

And from the sky, serene and far, 

A voice fell, like a falling star— 
Excelsior! 

Henry Wadsworth Longer [.low. 

Fate. 

“ The sky is clouded, the rocks are bare, 
The spray of the tempest is white in air, 
The winds are out with the waves at play, 
And I shall not tempt the sea to-day. 

“ The trail is narrow, the wood is dim, 

The panther clings to the arching limb, 
And the lion’s whelps are abroad at 

play, 

And I shall not join in the chase to-day.” 

But the ship sail’d safely over the sea, 

And the hunters came from the chase in 
glee, 

And the town that was builded upon a 
rock 

Was swallow’d up in the earthquake 
shock. 

Francis Bret Harte. 

The Wretch, Condemned with 
Life to Part. 

The wretch, condemn’d with life to part 
Still, still on hope relies, 

And every pang that rends the heart 
Bids expectation rise. 





POEMS OF SENTIMENT. 


759 


Hope, like the glimm’ring taper’s light, 
Adorns and cheers the way; 

And still, as darker grows the night, 
Emits a brighter ray. 

Oliver Goldsmith. 

-o- 

Weep no More. 

Weep no more, nor sigh, nor groan, 
Sorrow calls no time that’s gone; 
Violets pluck’d, the sweetest rain 
Makes not fresh nor grow again; 
Trim thy locks, look cheerfully, 

Fate’s hidden ends eyes cannot see; 
Joys as winged dreams fly fast, 
Why should sadness longer last? 

Grief is hut a wound to woe; 

Gentlest fair one, mourn no mo. 

John Fletcher. 


Who, through long days of labor, 
And nights devoid of ease, 

Still heard in his soul the music 
Of wonderful melodies. 

Such songs have power to quiet 
The restless pulse of care, 

And come like the benediction 
That follows after prayer. 

Then read from the treasured volume 
The poem of thy choice; 

And lend to the rhyme of the poet 
The beauty of thy voice. 

And the night shall be fill’d with music, 
And the cares that infest the day 

Shall fold their tents like the Arabs, 
And as silently steal away. 

Henry Wadsworth Longfellow. 

-o- 


-o- 

The Day is Done. 

The day is done, and the darkness 
Falls from the wings of Night, 

As a feather is wafted downward 
From an eagle in his flight. 

I see the lights of the village 
Gleam through the rain and the mist; 

And a feeling of sadness comes o’er me, 
That my soul cannot resist: 

A feeling of sadness and longing, 

That is not akin to pain. 

And resembles sorrow only 

As the mist resembles the rain. 

Come, read to me some poem, 

Some simple and heartfelt lay, 

That shall soothe this restless feeling, 
And banish the thoughts of day. 

Not from the grand old masters, 

Not from the bards sublime, 

Whose distant footsteps echo 
Through the corridors of Time. 

For, like strains of martial music, 
Their mighty thoughts suggest 

Life’s endless toil and endeavor; 

And to-night I long for rest. 


Sonnet on Sleep. 

Care-charmer Sleep, son of the sable 
Night, 

Brother to Death, in silent-darkness 
born. 

Relieve my languish, and restore the 
light; 

With dark forgetting of my care re¬ 
turn, 

And let the day be time enough to mourn 
The shipwreck of my ill-adventured 
youth: 

Let waking eyes suffice to wail their 
scorn. 

Without the torment of the night’s un¬ 
truth. 

Cease, dreams, the images of day-desires, 
To model forth the passions of the 
morrow; 

Never let rising sun approve you liars 
To add more grief to aggravate my 
sorrow: 

Still let me sleep, embracing clouds in 
vain, 

And never wake to feel the day’s dis- 
^ a * n ’ Samuel Daniel. 

-o- 

Epigram .- Treason. 


Read from some humbler poet. 

Whose songs gush’d from his heart, 

As showers from the clouds of summer, 
Or tears from the eyelids start; 


Treason doth never prosper: what’s the 
reason? 


<’or if it prosper, none dare call it 
treason. <? T r j OHS - Harrington. 












760 


FIRESIDE ENCYCLOPAEDIA OF POETRY. 


The King is Dying. 

Fool, stand back, the King is dying, 

Give him what little air remains; 

Seest thou not how his pulse is flying? 

Hear’st thou not how he gasps and strains 
To catch one other stertorous breath ? 

God! how he labors ! yes, this is death! 

Blow up the fire—his feet are cold ; 

Ay, though a king, he cannot buy 
One briefest moment with all his gold; 

His hour has come, and he must die; 
Withered and wrinkled, and old and gray, 
The King fares out on the common way. 

Light the tapers : lie’s almost gone ; 

Stir, thou fool! ’tis past the hour 
To cower and cringe, and flatter and fawn— 
The thing lying there is shorn of power; 
Henceforth the lips of the King are dumb: 
Bring up thy ghostly viaticum. 


The king sat bowed beneath his crown, 
Propping his face with listless hand; 
Watching the hour-glass sifting down 
Too slow its shining sand. 

“Poor man, what wouldst thou have of 
me?” 

The beggar turned, and, pitying, 
Replied, like one in a dream, “ Of thee. 
Nothing. I want the king.” 

Uprose the king, and from his head 
Shook off the crown and threw it by. 

“O man, thou must have known,” he said, 
“A greater king than I!” 

Through all the gates, unquestioned then, 
Went king and beggar hand in hand. 
Whispered the king, “Shall I know when 
Before his throne I stand?” 


Absolve his soul: need enough, God wotl 
Mumble and sprinkle and do thy shriv- 

illcr • 

Yet, methinks, here and there shall be left 
a blot 

Hideously foul, despite thy striving; 

Nor purfled quilts, nor pillows of lace, 

Can relieve the guilt in that grim old face. 

Soft! stand back ! it is his last; 

Get hence, thy priestly craft is o’er ; 

For him the pomp of the world is past— 
The King that was is King no more: 

Let the bells be rung, let the mass be said, 
And the King’s heir know that the King is 


The beggar laughed. Free winds in haste 
Were wiping from the king’s hot brow 
The crimson lines the crown had traced. 

“ This is his presence now.” 

At the king’s gate, the crafty noon 
Unwove its yellow nets of sun; 

Out of their sleep in terror soon 
The guards waked one by one. 

“Ho here! ho here ! Has no man seen 
The king?” The cry ran to and fro; 
Beggar and king, they laughed, I ween, 
The laugh that freemen know. 


Corona tion. 

At the king’s gate the subtle noon 
Wove filmy yellow nets of sun ; 

Into the drowsy snare too soon 
The guards fell one by one. 

Through the king’s gate, unquestioned 
then, 

A beggar went, and laughed, “ This 
brings 

Me chance, at last, to see if men 
Fare better, being kings.” 


On the king’s gate the moss grew gray: 
The king came not. They called him 
dead; 

And made his eldest son one day 
Slave in his father’s stead. 

Helen Hunt Jackson. 

Tom Duns tan; or, The Politician. 

Now' poor Tom Dunstan’s cold, 

Our shop is duller; 

Scarce a story is told, 

And our chat has lost the old 
Red republican color! 





POEMS OF SENTIMENT. 


7G1 


Though he was sickly and thin, 

’Twas a sight to see his face,— 
While, sick of the country’s sin, 

With bang of the fist, and chin 
Thrust out, he argued the case! 

He prophesied men should be free, 

And the money-bags be bled;— 

“She’s coming, she’s coming,” said he; 

“ Courage, boys! wait and see! 

Freedom’s ahead!” 

All day we sat in the heat, 

Like spiders spinning, 

Stitching full fine and fleet, 

While old Moses on his seat 
Sat greasily grinning; 

And here Tom said his say, 

And prophesied Tyranny’s death; 
And the tallow burnt all day, 

And we stitch’d and stitch’d away 
In the thick smoke of our breath. 
Weary, weary were we, 

Our hearts as heavy as lead,— 

But “ Patience! she’s coming!” said he; 

“ Courage, boys! wait and see! 

Freedom’s ahead!” 

And at night, when we took here 
The rest allow’d to us, 

The paper came with the beer, 

And Tom read, sharp and clear, 

The news out loud to us, 

And then, in his witty way, 

He threw the jests about,— 

The cutting things he’d say 
Of the wealthy and the gay ! 

How he turn’d them inside out! 

And it made our breath more free 
To hearken to what he said: 

“She’s coming, she’s coming!” said he; 

*' Courage, boys I wait and see! 

Freedom’s ahead!” 

But grim Jack Hart, with a sneer, 
Would mutter, “ Master, 

If Freedom means to appear, 

I think she might step here 
A little faster!” 

Then ’twas fine to see Tom flame, 

And argue and prove and preach, 

Till Jack was silent for shame, 

Or a fit of coughing came 
O’ sudden to spoil Tom’s speech. 


Ah! Tom had the eyes to see 
When Tyranny should be sped;— 
“She’s coming, she’s coming!” said he; 
“ Courage, boys ! wait and see! 
Freedom’s ahead!” 

But Tom was little and weak; 

The hard hours shook him; 
Hollower grew bis cheek, 

And when he began to speak 
The coughing took him. 

Erelong the cheery sound 
Of his chat among us ceased, 

And we made a purse all round, 

That he might not starve, at least. 
His pain was sorry to see, 

Yet there, on his poor, sick bed, 

“ She’s coming, in spite of me! 

Courage and wait!” cried he, 

“ Freedom’s ahead!” 

A little before he died, 

To see his passion ! 

“ Bring me a paper!” he cried, 

And then to study it tried 
In his old sharp fashion; 

And, with eyeballs glittering, 

His look on me he bent, 

And said that savage thing 
Of the lords o’ the Parliament. 
Then, dying, smiling on me, 

“ What matter if one be dead? 
She’s coming, at last!” said he; 

“ Courage, boys! wait and see! 
Freedom’s ahead!” 

Ay, now Tom Dunstan’s cold, 

The shop feels duller ; 

Scarce a tale is told, 

And our talk has lost the old 
Red republican color. 

But we see a figure gray, 

And we hear a voice of death, 

And the tallow burns all day, 

And we stitch and stitch away 
In the thick smoke of our breath; 
Ay, while in the dark sit we, 

Tom seems to call from the dead— 

“ She’s coming, she’s coming !” says he; 
“ Courage, boys ! wait and see! 
Freedom’s ahead!” 





702 


FIRESIDE ENCYCLOPAEDIA OF POETRY. 


IIow long, O Lord, how long 
Must Thy handmaid linger? 

She who shall right the wrong, 

Make the poor sufferer strong? 

Sweet morrow, bring her! 

Hasten her over the sea, 

O Lord, ere hope be fled,— 

Bring her to men and to me! 

O slave, pray still on thy knee, 
“Freedom’s ahead!” 

Robert Buchanan. 

■-o- 

Song from “Valentinian.” 

C’ABE-eharming Sleep, thou easer of all 
woes, 

Brother to Death, sweetly thyself dispose 

On this afflicted prince: fall like a cloud 

In gentle showers; give nothing that is 
loud 

Or painful to his slumbers; easy, sweet, 

And as a purling stream, thou son of 
Night, 

Pass by his troubled senses; sing his 
pain, 

Like hollow murmuring wind, or silver 
rain. 

Into this prince gently, oh. gently slide, 

And kiss him into slumbers like a bride! 

Beaumont and Fletcher. 

—■—o- 

Sonnet. 

Because I eft in dark abstracted guise 

Seem most alone in greatest company, 

With dearth of words, or answers 
quite awry 

To them that would make speech of 
speech arise. 

They deem, and of their doom the rumor 
flies, 

That poison foul of bubbling Pride 
doth lie 

So in my swelling breast, that only I 

Fawn on myself, and others do despise. 

Yet Pride, I think, doth not my soul pos¬ 
sess, 

Which looks too oft in his unflattering 
glass; 

But one worse fault Ambition I confess, 

That makes me oft my best friends 
overpass, 


Unseen, unheard, while thought to high¬ 
est place 

Bends all his powers, even unto Stella’s 
grace. 

Sir Philit Sidney. 
-o- 

.4 Man’s a Man for a’ That. 

Is there for honest poverty 
That hangs his head, an’ a’ that? 

The coward slave, we pass him by; 

We dare be poor for a’ that! 

For a’ that, an’ a’ that, 

Our toils obscure, an’ a’ that; 

The rank is but the guinea’s stamp— 
The man’s the gowd for a’ that! 

What tlio’ on hamely fare we dine, 
Wear hoddin gray, an’ a’ that; 

Gie fools their silks, and knaves their 
wine— 

A man’s a man for a’ that! 

For a’ that, an’ a’ that. 

Their tinsel show, an’ a’ that; 

The honest man, though e’er sae poor, 

Is king o’ men for a’ that! 

You see yon birkie ca'd a lord, 

Wha struts, an’ stares, an’ a’ that— 
Tlio’ hundreds worship at his word, 

He’s but a eoof for a’ that; 

For a’ that, an’ a’ that, . 

His riband, star, an’ a’ that; 

The man o’ independent mind, 

He looks an’ laughs at a’ that. 

A prince can mak a belted knight, 

A marquis, duke, an’ a’ that, 

But an honest man’s aboon his might— 
Gude faith, he mauna fa’ that! 

For a’ that, an’ a’ that, 

Their dignities, an’ a’ that, 

The pith o’ sense, an’ pride o’ worth, 

Are higher rank than a’ that. 

Then let us pray that come it may, 

As come it will for a’ that, 

That sense an’ worth, o’er a’ the earth, 
Shall bear the gree, an’ a’ that. 

For a’ that, an’ a’ that, 

It’s cornin’ yet, for a’ that— 

The man to man. the warld o’er. 

Shall brothers be for a’ that. 

Robert Burns. 












Humorous and Fantastic. 


The Courtin'. 

God makes sech nights, all white an’ still 
Fur'z you can look or listen, 

Moonshine an’ snow on field an’ hill, 

All silence an’ all glisten. 

Zekle crep’ up quite unbeknown, 

An’ peek’d in thru the winder, 

An’ there sot Huldy all alone, 

’Ith no one nigh to hender. 

A fireplace fill’d the room’s one side, 

With half a cord o’ wood in— 

There warn’t no stoves (tell comfort died) 
To bake ye to a puddin’. 

The wa’nut logs shot sparkles out 
Towards the pootiest, bless her 1 
An’ leetle flames danced all about 
The chiny on the dresser. 

Agin the chimbley crook-necks hung, 

An’ in amongst ’em rusted 
The ole queen’s-arm thet gran’ther Yeung 
Fetch’d back from Concord busted. 

The very room, coz she was in, 

Seem’d warm from floor to ceilin’, 

An’ she look’d full ez rosy agin 
Ez the apples she was peelin’. 

’Twas kin’ o’ kingdom-come to look 
On sech a blessed cretur, 

A dogrose blushin’ to a brook 
Ain’t modester nor sweeter. 

He was six foot o’ man, A, 1, 

Clean grit an’ human natur’; 

None couldn’t quicker pitch a ton, 

Nor dror a furrer straighter. 

He’d spark’d it wdth full twenty gals, 

Hed squired ’em, danced ’em, druv ’em, 
Fust this one, an’ then thet, by spells— 

All is, he couldn’t love ’em. 


But long o’ her his veins ’ould run 
All crinkly like curl’d maple, 

The side she bresh’d felt full o’ sun 
Ez a south slope in Ap’il. 

She thought no v’ice hed sech a swing 
Ez hisn in the choir ; 

My ! when he made Ole Hunderd ring, 
She biow’d the Lord was nigher. 

An’ she’d blush scarlit, right in prayer. 
When her new meetin’-bunnet 

Felt somehow thru its crown a pair 
O’ blue eyes sot upon it. 

Thet night, I tell ye, she look’d some l 
She seemed to’ve gut a new soul, 

For she felt sartin-sure he’d come, 

Down to her very shoe-sole. 

She heered a foot, an’ know’d it tu, 
A-raspin’ on the scraper,— 

All ways to once her feelin’s flew 
Like sparks in burnt-up paper. 

He kin’ o’ Titer’d on the mat, 

Some doubtfle o’ the sekle, 

His heart kep’ goin’ pity-pat. 

But hern went pity Zekle. 

An’ yit she gin her cheer a jerk, 

Ez though she wish’d him furder, 

An’ on her apples kep’ to work, 

Parin’ away like murder. 

“ You want to see my pa, I s’pose ?” 

“ Wal .... no .... I come dasign- 
in’ ”— 

“To see my ma? She’s sprinklin’ clo’es 
Agin to-morrer’s i’nin’.” 

To say why gals acts so or so, 

Or don’t, ’ould be presumin’; 

Mebby to mean yes an’ say no 
Comes nateral to women. 


763 





764 


FIRESIDE ENCYCLOPEDIA OF POETRY. 


He stood a spell on one foot fust, 

Then stood a spell on t’other, 

An’ on which one he felt the wust 
He couldn’t ha’ told ye nuther. 

Says he, “ I’d better call agin 
Says she, “ Think likely, mister;” 

Thet last word prick’d him like a pin, 

An’ . . . . Wal, he up an’ kist her. 

When ma bimeby upon ’em slips, 

Huldy sot pale ez ashes, 

All kin’ o’ smily roun’ the lips 
An’ teary roun’ the lashes. 

For she was jes’ the quiet kind 
Whose naturs never vary, 

Like streams that keep a summer mind 
Snow-hid in Jenooary. 

The blood dost roun’ her heart felt glued 
Too tight for all expressin’, 

Tell mother see how matters stood, 

An’ gin ’em both her blessin’. 

Then her red come back like the tide 
Down to the Bay o’ Fundy, 

An’ all I know is they was cried 
In meetin’ come nex’ Sunday. 

James Russell Lowell. 


| He took the gray mare, and rade cannily— 
And rapp’d at the yett o’ Claverse-ha’ 
Lee: 




“ ’Gae tell Mistress Jean to come speedily 
ben, 

She’s wanted to speak to the Laird o’ 
Cockpen.” 


Mistress Jean was makin’ the elder-flower 
wine : 

| “And what brings the Laird at sic a like 
time ?” 

She put aff her apron, and on her silk 
gown, 

Her mutch wi’ red ribbons, and gaed awa’ 
down. 


And when she cam’ ben, he bow’d fu’ low, 
And what was his errand he soon let her 
know; 

Amazed was the Laird when the lady said 
“ Na 

And wi’ a laigh curtsey she turned awa’. 
Dumfounder’d he w r as—nae sigh did he 

gie; 

He mounted his mare—he rade cannily; 
And aften he thought, as he gaed through 
the glen, 

She’s daft to refuse the Laird o’ Cockpen. 


The Laird o’ Cockpen. 

The laird o’ Cockpen he’s proud and he’s 
great, 

His mind is ta’en up with the things o’ the 
state; 

He wanted a wife his braw house to keep, 

But favor wi’ wooin’ was fashious to seek. 

Down by the dyke-side a lady did dwell, 

At his table-head he thought she’d look 
well; 

M’Lish’s ae daughter o’ Claverse-ha’ Lee, 

A penniless lass wi’ a lang pedigree. 

His wig was weel pouther’d, and as glide 
as new; 

His waistcoat was white, his coat it was 
blue; 

He put on a ring, a sword, and cock’d hat, 

And wha could refuse the Laird wi’ a’ 
that ? 


And now that the Laird his exit had 
made, 

Mistress Jean she reflected on what she 
had said ; 

“Oh ! for ane I’ll get better, it’s waur I’ll 
get ten, 

I was daft to refuse the Laird o’ Cockpen.” 

Next time that the Laird aud the lady 
were seen, 

They were gaun arm-in-arm to the kirk on 
the green. 

Now she sits in the ha’ like a weel-tappit 
hen— 

But as yet there’s nae chickens appear’d at 
Cockpen. 

Lady Carolina Nairn®. 

A glass is good, and a lass is good, 

And a pipe to smoke in cold weather; 

The world is good, and the people are 
good. 

And we're all good fellows together. 


John O' Keefe. 













■■ ■ T'f 








Copyright, 1904, by William H. Rau. 

HOME, SWEET HOME 

“A charm from the sky seems to hallow us there, 

Which, seek through the world, is ne’er met with elsewhere.” 

































Their eldest hope, their Jenny, woman grown, 

Comes home, perhaps, to shew a braw new gown”— Pars. 













HUMOROUS AND FANTASTIC 


765 


A Serenade. 


“Lullaby, O, lullaby!” 

Thus I heard a father cry. 
“Lullaby, O. lullaby! 

The brat will never shut an eye; 
Hither come, some power divine! 

Close his lids, or open mine!” 

“Lullaby, O, lullaby! 

What the devil makes him cry? 
Lullaby, O, lullaby! 

Still he stares—I wonder why, 
Why are not the sons of earth 
Blind, like puppies, from their birth?” 

“Lullaby, O, lullaby!” 

Thus I heard the father cry; 
“Lullaby, O, lullaby! 

Mary, you must come and try!— 
Hush, oh, hush, for mercy’s sake— 

The more I sing, the more you wake!” 

“Lullaby, O. lullaby! 

Fie, you little creature, tie! 
Lullaby, O, lullaby! 

Is no poppy-syrup nigh? 

Give him some, or give him all, 

I am nodding to his fall!” 

“Lullaby, O, lullaby! 

Two such nights and I shall die! 
Lullaby, O. lullaby! 

He’ll be bruised, and so shall I— 
How can I from bedposts keep. 

When I’m walking in my sleep?” 

“Lullaby, O, lullaby! 

Sleep his very looks deny— 
Lullaby, O, lullaby! 

Nature soon will stupefy — 

My nerves relax—my eyes grow dim— 
Who’s that fallen—me or him?” 

Thomas Hood. 

-o- 

On Dr. Hilus Farces. 

Fok physic and farces 
His equal there scarce is; 

His farces are physic. 

His physic a farce is. 

David Gariuck. 


Epigram on Two Monopolists. 

Bone and Skin, two Millers thin, 
Would starve us all, or near it; 

But be it known to Skin and Bone 
That Flesh and Blood can’t bear it. 

John Birom. 

-o- 

Kubla Khan. 

In Xanadu did Kubla Khan 
A stately pleasure-dome decree: 

Where Alph, the sacred river, ran 

Through caverns measureless to man 
Down to a sunless sea. 

So twice five miles of fertile ground 

With walls and towers were girdled 
round: 

And there were gardens bright with sinu¬ 
ous rills 

Where blossomed many an incense-bear¬ 
ing tree; 

And here were forests ancient as the 
hills, 

Enfolding sunny spots of greenery. 

But oh ! that deep romantic chasm which 
slanted 

Down the green hill athwart a cedarn 
cover! 

A savage place! as holy and enchanted 

As e’er beneath a waning moon was 
haunted 

By woman wailing for her demon-lover! 

And from this chasm, with ceaseless tur¬ 
moil seething, 

As if this earth in fast thick pants were 
breathing, 

A mighty fountain momently was forced: 

Amid whose swift, half-intermitted burst 

Huge fragments vaulted like rebounding 
hail. 

Or chaffy grain beneath the thresher’s 
flail: 

And ’mid these dancing rocks at once and 
ever 

It flung up momently the sacred river. 

Five miles meandering with a mazy mo¬ 
tion 

Through wood and dale the sacred river 
ran, 

Then reached the caverns measureless to 
man, 

And sank in tumult to a lifeless ocean: 

And ’mid this tumult Kubla heard from 
far 

Ancestral voices prophesying war! 













7GG 


FIRESIDE ENCYCLOPAEDIA OF POETRY 


The shadow of the dome of pleasure 
Floated midway on the waves; 

Where was heard the mingled measure 
From the fountain and the caves. 

It was a miracle of rare device, 

A sunny pleasure-dome with caves of ice 1 
A damsel with a dulcimer 
In a vision once I saw; 

It was an Abyssinian maid, 

And on her dulcimer she played, 
Singing of Mount Abora. 

Could I revive within me 
Her symphony and song, 

To such a deep delight ’twould win me 
That, with music loud and long, 

I would build that dome in air, 

That sunny dome! those caves of ice! 

And all who heard should see them 
there, 

And all should cry, Beware! beware 
His flashing eyes, his floating hair! 

Weave a circle round him thrice, 

And close your eyes with holy dread, 

For he on honev-dew hath fed, 

And drunk the milk of Paradise. 

Samuel Taylor Coleridge. 


The Raven. 

Oxce upon a midnight dreary, while I 
pondered, weak and weary, 

Over many a quaint and curious volume 
of forgotten lore, 

While I nodded, nearly napping, suddenly 
there came a tapping, 

As of some one gently rapping, rapping 
at my chamber-door. 

“’Tis some visitor,” I muttered, “tap¬ 
ping at my chamber-door— 

Only this, and nothing more.” 

Ah, distinctly I remember it was in the 
bleak December, 

And each separate dying ember wrought 
its ghost upon the floor. 

Eagerly I wished the morrow;—vainly I 
had tried to borrow 
From my books surcease of sorrow— 
sorrow for the lost Lenore— 

For the rare and radiant maiden whom 
the angels name Lenore, 

Nameless here for evermore. 


And the silken sad uncertain rustling of 
each purple curtain 

Thrilled me,—filled me with fantastic 
terrors never felt before ; 

So that now, to still the beating of my 
heart, I stood repeating, 

“ ’Tis some visitor entreating entrance 
at my chamber-door, 

Some late visitor entreating entrance at 
my chamber-door; 

This it is and nothing more.” 

Presently my soul grew stronger; hesi¬ 
tating then no longer, 

“ Sir,” said I, “ or Madam, truly your 
forgiveness I implore; 

But the fact is I was napping, and so 
gently you came rapping, 

And so faintly you came tapping, tap¬ 
ping at my chamber-door, 

That I scarce was sure I heard you.”— 
Here I opened wide the door;— 
Darkness there and nothing more. 

Deep into that darkness peering, long I 
stood there wondering, fearing, 
Doubting, dreaming dreams no mortal 
ever dared to dream before; 

But the silence was unbroken, and the 
stillness gave no token, 

And the only word there spoken was 
the whispered word “ Lenore!” 

This I whispered, and an echo murmured 
back the word “ Lenore!”— 

Merely this and nothing more. 

Back into the chamber turning, all my 
soul within me burning, 

Soon again I heard a tapping, somewhat 
louder than before. 

“ Surely,” said I, “ surely that is something 
at my window-lattice; 

Let me see, then, what thereat is, and 
this mystery explore, 

Let my heart be still a moment, and 
this mystery explore; 

’Tis the wind, and nothing more!” 

Open here I flung the shutter, when, with 
many a flirt and flutter, 

In there stepp’d a stately Raven of the 
saiutly days of yore. 








HUMOROUS AND FANTASTIC. 


767 


Not the least obeisance made he; not an 
instant stopped or stayed he ; 

Rat with mien of lord or lady, perched 
above my chamber-door,— 

Perched upon a bust of Pallas, just 
above my chamber-door,— 

Perched, and sat, and nothing more. 

Then this ebony bird beguiling my sad 
fancy into smiling, 

By the grave and stern decorum of the 
countenance it wore, 

“ Though thy crest be shorn and shaven, 
thou/’ I said, “ art sure no craven, 

Ghastly, grim, and ancient Raven, wan¬ 
dering from the Nightly shore,— 

Tell me what thy lordly name is on the 
Night’s Plutonian shore.” 

Quoth the Raven, “ Nevermore.” 

Much I marvelled this ungainly fow r l to 
hear discourse so plainly, 

Though its answer little meaning—little 
relevancy bore; 

For we cannot help agreeing that no living 
human being 

Ever yet w r as blest with seeing bird above 
his chamber-door— 

Bird or beast upon the sculptured bust 
above his chamber-door, 

With such name as “ Nevermore.” 

But the Raven, sitting lonely on the placid 
bust, spoke only 

That one word, as if his soul in that one 
word he did outpour. 

Nothing further then he uttered ; not a 
feather then he fluttered— 

Till I scarcely more than muttered, 
“ Other friends have flown before— 

On the morrow he will leave me, as my 
Hopes have flown before.” 

Then the bird said, “ Nevermore.” 

Startled at the stillness broken by reply so 
aptly spoken, 

“ Doubtless,” said I, “ what it utters is 
its only stock and store, 

Caught from some unhappy master w r hom 
unmerciful Disaster 

Followed fast and followed faster till his 
song one burden bore— 


Till the dirges of his Hope that melan- 
choly burden bore— 

Of ‘ Never ’—‘ Nevermore.’ ” 

But the Raven still beguiling all my sad 
soul into smiling, 

Straight I wheel’d a cushion’d seat in 
front of bird, and bust, and door ; 

Then, upon the velvet sinking, I betook 
myself to linking 

Fancy unto fancy, thinking what this 
ominous bird of yore— 

What this grim, ungainly, ghastly, 
gaunt, and ominous bird of yore 
Meant in croaking “Nevermore.” 

This I sat engaged in guessing, but no 
syllable expressing 

To the fowl whose fiery eyes now burned 
into my bosom’s core ; 

This and more I sat divining, with my 
head at ease reclining 
On the cushion’s velvet lining that the 
lamplight gloated o’er, 

But whose velvet violet lining with the 
lamplight gloating o’er— 

She shall press, ah, nevermore ! 

Then, methought the air grew denser, per¬ 
fumed from an unseen censer 
Swung by Seraphim whose footfalls 
tinkled on the tufted floor. 

“Wretch,” I cried, “thy God hath lent 
thee—by these angels he hath sent 
thee 

Respite—respite and nepenthe from thy 
memories of Lenore! 

Quaff, oh quaff this kind nepenthe, and 
forget this lost Lenore !” 

Quoth the Raven, “ Nevermore.” 

“ Prophet 1” said I, “ thing of evil! proph¬ 
et still, if bird or devil!— 

Whether Tempter sent, or whether tem¬ 
pest tossed thee here ashore, 

Desolate, yet all undaunted, on this desert 
land enchanted— 

On this home by Horror haunted—tell 
me truly, I implore— 

Is there— is there balm in Gilead ?- -tell 
me, tell me, I implore !” 

Quoth the Raven, “ Nevermore.” 







768 


FIRESIDE ENCYCLOPAEDIA OF POETRY. 


“Prophet!” said I, “thing of evil,—proph¬ 
et still, if bird or devil! 

By that Heaven that bends above us— 
by that God we both adore— 

Tell this soul with sorrow laden if, within 
the distant Aidenn, 

It shall clasp a sainted maiden whom 
the angels name Lenore— 

Clasp a rare and radiant maiden whom 
the angels name Lenore.” 

Quoth the Raven, “Nevermore.” 

“Be that word our sign of parting, bird or 
fiend!” I shrieked, upstarting— 
“Get thee back into the tempest and 
the Night’s Plutonian shore! 

Leave no black plume as a token of that 
lie thy soul hath spoken! 

Leave my loneliness unbroken! quit 
the bust above my door! 

Take thy beak from out my heart, and 
take thy form from off my door!” 

Quoth the Raven, “Nevermore.” 

And the Raven, never flitting, still is sit¬ 
ting, still is sitting 
On the pallid bust of Pallas just above 
my chamber-door; 

And his eyes have all the seeming of a 
demon’s that is dreaming, 

And the lamplight o'er him streaming 
throws his shadow on the floor; 
And my soul from out that shadow 
that lies floating on the floor, 

Shall be lifted—nevermore! 

Edgar Allan Poe. 

•-o—♦— 

Old Grimes. 

Old Grimes is dead ; that goM old man ;— 
We ne’er shall see him more: 

He used to wear a long black coat, 

All button'd down before. 

His heart was open as the day, 

His feelings all were true; 

His hair was some inclined to gray, 

He wore it in a queue. 


Whene’er he heard the voice of pain. 
His breast with pity burn’d; 

The large, round head upon his cane 
From ivory was turn’d. 

Kind words he ever had for all; 

He knew no base design: 

His eyes were dark and rather small, 
His nose was aquiline. 

He lived at peace with all mankind, 

In friendship he was true. 

His coat had pocket-holes behind, 

His pantaloons were blue. 

Unharm’d, the sin which earth pollutes 
He pass’d securely o’er; 

And never wore a pair of boots 
For thirty years or more. 

But good old Grimes is now at rest, 

Nor fears misfortune’s frown; 
lie wore a double-breasted vest; 

The stripes ran up and down. 

He modest merit sought to find. 

And pay it its desert; 

He had no malice in his mind, 

No ruffles on his shirt. 

His neighbors he did not abuse, 

Was sociable and gay; 

He wore large buckles on his shoes, 

And changed them every day. 

His knowledge, hid from public gaze, 

He did not bring to view— 

Nor make a noise town-meeting days, 

As many people do. 

His worldly goods he never threw 
In trust to Fortune’s chances; 

But lived (as all his brothers do) 

In easy circumstances. 

Thus, undisturb’d by anxious cares, 

His peaceful moments ran; 

And everybody said he was 
A fine old gentleman. 

Albert G. Greene. 

-o- 

Epigram on a Bad Singer. 

Swans sing before they die—’twere no 
bad thing 

Should certain persons die before they 
sing. 

Samuel Taylor Coleridge. 










HUMOROUS AND FANTASTIC. 


769 


Epigram 

As late the Trades’ Unions, by way of a 
show, 

Over Westminster Bridge strutted five in 
a row, 

“I feel for the bridge,” whispered Dick, 
with a shiver; 

“Thus tried by the mob, it may sink in 
the river.” 

Quoth Tom, a Crown lawyer, “Abandon 
your fears; 

As a bridge, it can only he tried by its 
piers.” 

James Smith. 

-o-- 

Tam O'Shan ter. 

A Tale. 

“Of brownys and of bogilis full is this buke.”— 
Gawin Douglas. 

When chapman billies leave the street, 
And drouthy neebors neebors meet, 

As market-days are wearing late, 

An’ folks begin to tak’ the gate; 

While we sit bousing at the nappy, 

An’ gettin’ fou and unco happy, 

We think na on the lang Scots miles, 

The mosses, waters, slaps, and styles, 

That lie between us and our hame, 

Where sits our sulky sullen dame, 
Gathering her brows like gathering storm, 
Nursing her wrath to keep it warm. 

This truth fand honest Tam O’Shanter, 

As he frae Ayr ae night did canter 
(Auld Ayr, wham ne’er a town surpasses, 
For honest men and bonny lasses). 

O Tam ! hadst thou but been sae wise, 

As ta’en thy ain wife Kate’s advice ! 

She tauld thee weel thou was a skellum, 

A blethering, blustering, drunken blellum ; 
That frae November till October, 

Ae market-day thou was nae sober; 

That ilka melder, wi’ the miller, 

Thou sat as lang as thou had siller; 

That ev’ry naig was ca’d a shoe on, 

The smith and thee gat roaring fou on ; 
That at the Lord’s house, ev’n on Sunday, 
Thou drank wi’ Kirton Jean till Monday. 
49 


She prophesy’d, that late or soon, 

Thou would be found deep drown!d in 
Doon ; 

Or catch’d wi’ warlocks in the mirk, 

By Alloway’s auld haunted kirk. 

Ah, gentle dames 1 it gars me greet, 

To think how mony counsels sweet, 

How mony lengthen’d sage advices. 

The husband frae the wife despises ! 

But to our tale :—Ae market night, 

Tam had got planted unco right; 

Fast by an ingle, bleezing finely, 

Wi’ reaming swats, that drank divinely; 
And at his elbow, Souter Johnny, 

His ancient, trusty, drouthy crony ; 

Tam lo’ed him like a vera brither; 

They had been fou for weeks thegither 1 
The night drave on wi’ sangs an’ clatter; 
And ay the ale was growing better: 

The landlady and Tam grew gracious ; 

Wi’ favors secret, sweet, and precious; 

The Souter tauld his queerest stories ; 

The landlord’s laugh was ready chorus . • 

The storm without might rair and rustle— 
Tam did na mind the storm a whistle. 
Care, mad to see a man sae happy, 

E’en drown’d himself amang the nappy ! 
As bees flee hame wi’ lades o’ treasure, 
The minutes wing’d their way wi’ pleasure: 
Kings may be blest, but Tam was glorious, 
O’er a’ the ills of life victorious. 

But pleasures are like poppies spread, 

You seize the flow’r, its bloom is shed ; 

Or like the snow falls in the river, 

A moment white—then melts for ever ; 

Or like the borealis race, 

That flit ere you can point their place; 

Or like the rainbow’s lovely form 
Evanishing amid the storm. 

Nae man can tether time or tide; 

The hour approaches Tam maun ride; 

That hour, o’ night’s black arch the key- 
stane, 

That dreary hour he mounts his beast in; 
And sic a night he taks the road in 
As ne’er poor sinner was abroad in. 

The wind blew as ’twad blawn its last; 

The rattling show’rs rose on the blast; 

The speedy gleams the darkness swallow’d; 
Loud, deep, and lang the thunder bellow’d; 










770 


FIRESIDE ENCYCLOPAEDIA OF POETRY. 


That night, a child might understand, 

The De’il had business on his hand. 

Weel mounted on his gray mare, Meg, 

A better never lifted leg, 

Tam skelpit on thro’ dub and mire, 
Despising wind, and rain, and fire ; 

Whiles holding fast his guid blue bonnet; 
Whiles crooning o’er some auld Scots son¬ 
net; 

Whiles glow’ring round wi’ prudent cares, 
Lest bogles catch him unawares ; 
Kirk-Alloway was drawing nigh, 

Where ghaists and houlets nightly cry.— 
By this time he was cross the foord 
Where in the snaw the chapman smoor’d; 
And past the birks and meikle stane, 
Where drunken Charlie brak’s neck-bane; 
And thro’ the whins, and by the cairn, 
Where hunters fand the murder’d bairn ; 
And near the thorn, aboon the well, 

Where Mungo’s mither hang’d hersel. 
Before him Doon pours all his floods; 

The doubling storm roars thro’ the woods ; 
The lightnings flash from pole to pole; 
Near and more near the thunders roll; 
When, glimmering thro’ the groaning trees, 
Kirk-Alloway seem’d in a bleeze; 

Thro’ ilka bore the beams were glancing ; 
And loud resounded mirth and dancing. 

Inspiring bold John Barleycorn ! 

What dangers thou canst make us scorn ! 
Wi’ tippenny, we fear nae evil ; 

Wi’ usquabae we’ll face the devil! 

The swats sae ream’d in Tammie’s noddle, 
Fair play, he cared nae deils a boddle. 

But Maggie stood right sair astonish’d, 
’Till, by the heel and hand admonish’d, 
She ventured forward on the light; 

And, wow ! Tam saw an unco sight! 

Warlocks and witches in a dance ; 

Nae cotillon brent new frae France, 

But hornpipes, jigs, strathspeys, and reels, 
Put life and mettle in their heels : 

A winnock-bunker in the east, 

There sat auld Nick, in shape o’ beast; 

A towzie tyke, black, grim, and large, 

To gie them music was his charge; 

He screw’d the pipes and gart them skirl, 
Till roof and rafters a’ did dirl.— 

Coffins stood round, like open presses ; 
That shaw’d the dead in their last dresses; 


And by some devilish cantrip slight 
Each in its cauld hand held a light— 

By which heroic Tam was able 
To note upon the haly table, 

A murderer’s banes in gibbet aims; 

Twa span-lang, wee unchristen’d bairns ; 
A thief, new-cutted frae a rape, 

Wi’ his last gasp his gab did gape; 

Five tomahawks, wi’ bluid red-rusted; 
Five scimitars, wi’ murder crusted; 

A garter, which a babe had strangled; 

A knife, a father’s throat had mangled, 
Whom his ain son o’ life bereft, 

The gray hairs yet stack to the heft: 

Wi’ mair o’ horrible and awfu’, 

Which ev’n to name wad be unlawfu’. 

As Tarnmie glowr’d, amazed, and curious, 
The mirth and fun grew fast and furious: 

1 The piper loud and louder blew; 

The dancers quick and quicker flew ; 

They reel’d, they set, they cross’d, they 
cleekit, 

’Till ilka carlin swat and reekit, 

And coost her duddies to the wark, 

And linket at it in her sark ! 

Now Tam, O Tam ! had thae been queans 
A’ plump and strapping, in their teens ; 
Their sarks, instead o’ creeshie flannen, 
Been snaw-white seventeen-hunder linen, 
Thir breeks o’ mine, my only pair, 

That ance were plush, o’ guid blue hair, 

I wad hae gi’en them off my hurdies, 

For ae blink o’ the bonnie burdies ! 

But wither’d beldams, auld and droll, 
Kigwoodie hags, wad spean a foal, 
Lowping an’ flinging on a cummock, 

I wonder didna turn thy stomach. 

But Tam kenn’d what was what fu’ braw- 
lie, 

There was a winsome wench and walie, 
That night enlisted in the core 
(Lang after kenn’d on Carrick shore; 

For mony a beast to dead she shot, 

And perish’d mony a bonnie boat, 

And shook baith meikle corn and bear, 
And kept the country-side in fear). 

Her cutty sark, o’ Paisley harn, 

That while a lassie she had worn, 

In longitude tho’ sorely scanty, 

It was her best, and she was vauntie.— 







HUMOROUS AND FANTASTIC. 


771 


Ah! litle kenn’d thy reverend grannie. 
That sark she coft for her wee Nannie, 
WT twa pund Scots (’twas a’ her riches). 
Wad ever graced a dance of witches! 

But here my muse her wing maun cour; 
Sic flights are far beyond her powT; 

To sing how Nannie lap and flang 
(A souple jade she was and strang), 

And how Tam stood, like ane bewitch'd, 
And thought his very een enrich’d; 

Even Satan glowr’d, and fidged fu’ fain. 
And botch’d and blew wi’ might and 
main: 

’Till first ae caper, syne anither. 

Tam tint his reason a’ tliegither, 

And roars out, “Weel done, Cutty-sark !” 
And in an instant all was dark: 

And scarcely .had he Maggie rallied. 
When out the hellish legion sallied. 

As bees bizz out wi’ angry fyke, 

When plundering herds assail their byke ; 
As open pussie’s mortal foes, 

When, pop! she starts before their nose; 
As eager runs the market-crowd, 

When “Catch the thief!” resounds aloud; 
So Maggie runs, the witches follow, 

Wi’ mony an eldritch screech and hollow. 

Ah, Tam! ah, Tam! thou’ll get thy 
fairin’! 

In hell they’ll roast thee like a herrin’! 

In vain thy Kate awaits thy cornin'! 

Kate soon will be a woefu’ woman! 
Now do thy speedy utmost, Meg, 

And win the key-stane of the brig; 

There at them thou thy tail may toss, 

A running stream they darena cross! 

But ere the key-stane she could make, 

The fient a tail she had to shake! 

For Nannie, far before the rest, 

Hard upon noble Maggie prest, 

And flew at Tam wi’ furious ettle; 

But little wist she Maggie’s mettle— 

Ae spring brought off her master hale. 
But left behind her ain gray tail: 

The carlin claught her by the rump, 

And left poor Maggie scarce a stump. 


Now, wha this tale o’ truth shall read, 
Ilk man and mother’s son, take heed: 
Whene’er to drink you are inclined, 

Or eutty-sarks run in your mind, 

Think! ye may buy the joys o’er dear— 
Remember Tam o’ Shunter’s mare. 

Robert Burns. 

-o- 

Cologne. 

In Koln, a town of monks and bones, 
And pavements fang’d with murderous 
stones, 

And rags and hags and hideous wenches— 
I counted two-and-seventy stenches, 

All well-defined and several stinks! 

Ye nymphs that reign o’er sewers and 
sinks! 

The river Rhine, it is well known, 

Doth wash your city of Cologne; 

But tell me, nymphs! what power divine 
Shall henceforth wash the river Rhine? 

Samuel Taylor Coleridge. 


Elegy on the Death of a 
Mad Dog. 

Good people all, of every sort. 

Give ear unto my song; 

And if you find it wond'rous short 
It cannot hold you long. 

In Islington there was a man. 

Of whom the world might say 

That still a godly race he ran 
Whene’er he went to pray. 

A kind and gentle heart he had, 

To comfort friends and foes; 

The naked everyday he clad 
When he put on his clothes. 

And in that town a dog was found, 

As many dogs there be, 

Both mongrel, puppy, whelp, and hound, 
And curs of low degree. 













FIRESIDE ENCYCLOPAEDIA OF POETRY. 


This dog and man at first were friends: 
But when a pique began, 

The dog, to gain some private ends, 
Went mad, and bit the man. 

Around from all the neighboring streets 
The wondering neighbors ran, 

And swore the dog had lost his wits, 

To bite so good a man. 

The wound it seem’d both sore and sad 
To every Christian eye: 

And while they swore the dog was mad, 
They swore the man would die. 

But soon a wonder came to light, 

That show’d the rogues they lied : 

The man recover’d of the bite, 

The dog it was that died. 

Oliver Goldsmith. 

The Diverting History of John 
Gilpin. 

Showing how he went farther than he 

INTENDED, AND CAME SAFE HOME AGAIN. 

John Gilpin was a citizen 
Of credit and renown ; 

A trainband captain eke was he 
Of famous London town. 

John Gilpin’s spouse said to her dear— 
“Tho’ wedded we have been 

These twice ten tedious years, yet we 
No holiday have seen. 

“To-morrow is our wedding-day, 

And we will then repair 

Unto the Bell at Edmonton 
All in a chaise and pair. 

“ My sister and my sister’s child, 

Myself and children three, 

Will fill the chaise ; so you must ride 
On horseback after we.” 

He soon replied, “I do admire 
Of womankind but one, 

And you are she, my dearest dear: 
Therefore it shall be done. 

*' I am a linendraper bold, 

As all the world doth know; 

And my good friend, the calender, 

Will lend his horse to go. ” 


Quoth Mrs. Gilpin, “That’s well said ; 

And, for that wine is dear, 

We will be furnish’d with our own, 

Which is both bright and clear.” 

John Gilpin kiss’d his loving wife; 

O’erjoy’d was he to find 
That, though on pleasure she was bent, 
She had a frugal mind. 

The morning came, the chaise was brought, 
But yet was not allow’d 
To drive up to the door, lest all 
Should say that she was proud. 

So three doors off the chaise was stay’d, 
Where they did all get in— 

Six precious souls, and all agog 
To dash through thick and thin. 

Smack went the whip, round went the 
wheel— 

Were never folks so glad ; 

The stones did rattle underneath, 

As if Cheapside were mad. 

John Gilpin at his horse’s side 
Seized fast the flowing mane, 

And up he got, in haste to ride— 

But soon came down again : 

For saddletree scarce reach’d had he, 

His journey to begin, 

When, turning round his head, he saw 
Three customers come in. 

So down he came ; for loss of time, 
Although it grieved him sore, 

Yet loss of pence, full well he knew, 
Would trouble him much more. 

’Twas long before the customers 
Were suited to their mind ; 

When Betty, screaming, came down stairs— 
“ The wine is left behind!” 

“ Good lack!” quoth he—“ yet bring ft ni6^ 
My leathern belt likewise, 

In which I bear my trusty sword 
When I do exercise.” 

Now Mistress Gilpin (careful soul!) 

Had two stone bottles found, 

To hold the liquor that she loved, 

And keep it safe and sound. 




HUMOROUS AND FANTASTIC. 


773 


Each bottle had a curling ear, 

Through which the belt he drew, 

And hung a bottle on each side, 

To make his balance true. 

Then over all, that he might be 
Equipp’d from top to toe, 

His long red cloak, well brush’d and neat, 
He manfully did throw. 

Now see him mounted once again 
Upon his nimble steed, 

Full slowly pacing o’er the stones, 

With caution and good heed. 

But finding soon a smoother road 
Beneath his well-shod feet, 

The snorting beast began to trot, 

Which gall’d him in his seat. 

So, “ Fair and softly,” John he cried, 

But John he cried in vain ; 

That trot became a gallop soon, 

In spite of curb and rein. 

So stooping down, as needs he must 
Who cannot sit upright, 

He grasp’d the mane with both his hands, 
And eke with all his might. 

His horse, who never in that sort 
Had handled been before, 

What thing upon his back had got 
Did wonder more and more. 

Away went Gilpin, neck or naught; 

Away went hat and wig; 

He little dreamt, when he set out, 

Of running such a rig. 

The wind did blow—the cloak did fly, 
lake streamer long and gay; 

Till, loop and button failing both, 

At last it flew away. 

Then might all people well discern 
The bottles he had slung— 

A bottle swinging at each side, 

As hath been said or sung. 

The dogs did bark, the children scream’d, 
Up flew the windows all; 

And every soul cried out, “ Well done !” 
As loud as he could bawl. 


Away went Gilpin—who but he? 

His fame soon spread around— 

“ He carries weight! he rides a race I 
’Tis for a thousand pound!” 

And still as fast as he drew near, 

’Twas wonderful to view 
How in a trice the turnpike-men 
Their gates wide open threw. 

And now, as he went bowing down 
His reeking head full low, 

The bottles twain behind his back 
Were shatter’d at a blow. 

Down ran the wine into the road, 

Most piteous to be seen, 

Which made his horse’s flanks to smoke 
As they had basted been. 

But still he seem’d to carry weight, 

With leathern girdle braced ; 

For all might see the bottle-necks 
Still dangling at his waist. 

Thus all through merry Islington 
These gambols he did play, 

Until he came unto the Wash 
Of Edmonton so gay ; 

And there he threw the wash about 
On both sides of the way, 

Just like unto a trundling mop, 

Or a wild goose at play. 

At Edmonton his loving wife 
From the balcony spied 
Her tender husband, wondering much 
To see how he did ride. 

“ Stop, stop, John Gilpin! here’s the 
house,” 

They all at once did cry; 

“ The dinner waits, and we are tired 
Said Gilpin —“ So am I!” 

But yet his horse was not a whit 
Inclined to tarry there ; 

For why?—his ow r ner had a house 
Full ten miles off’, at Ware. 

So like an arrow swift he flew, 

Shot by an archer strong; 

So did he fly—which brings me to 
The middle of my song. 







774 


FIRESIDE ENCYCLOPAEDIA OF POETRY. 


Away went Gilpin out of breath, 

And sore against his will, 

Till at his friend’s the calender’s 
His horse at last stood still. 

The calender, amazed to see 
His neighbor in such trim, 

Laid down his pipe, flew to the gate, 

And thus accosted him : 

“What news? what news? your tidings 
tell; 

Tell me you must and shall— 

Say why bareheaded you are come, 

Or why you come at all ?” 

Now Gilpin had a pleasant wit, 

And loved a timely joke ; 

And thus unto the calender 
In merry guise he spoke: 

“ I came because your horse would come ; 

And, if I well forbode, 

My hat and wig will soon be here, 

They are upon the road.” 

The calender, right glad to find 
His friend in merry pin, 

Return’d him not a single word, 

But to the house went in ; 

Whence straight he came with hat and 
wig 

A wig that flow’d behind, 

A hat not much the worse for wear— 

Each comely in its kind. 

He held them up, and in his turn 
Thus show’d his ready wit— 

“ My head is twice as big as yours, 

They therefore needs must fit. 

“ But let me scrape the dirt away 
That hangs upon your face ; 

And stop and eat, for well you may 
Be in a hungry case.” 

Said John, “It is my wedding-day, 

And all the world would stare 
If wife should dine at Edmonton, 

And I should dine at Ware.” 

So turning to his horse, he said, 

“ I am in haste to dine; 

’Twas for your pleasure you came here— 
You shall go back for mine.” 


Ah, luckless speech and bootless boast. 
For which he paid full dear! 

For, while he spake, a braying ass 
Did sing most loud and clear ; 

Whereat his horse did snort, as he 
Had heard a lion roar, 

And gallop’d off with all his might, 

As he had done before. 

Away went Gilpin, and away 
Went Gilpin’s hat and wig: 

He lost them sooner than at first, 

For why?—they were too big. 

Now Mistress Gilpin, when she saw 
Her husband posting down 
Into the country far away, 

She pull’d out half a crown ; 

And thus unto the youth she said 
That drove them to the Bell, 

“This shall be yours when you bring 
back 

My husband safe and well.” 

The youth did ride, and soon did meet 
John coming back amain— 

Whom in a trice he tried to stop, 

By catching at his rein; 

' But not performing what he meant, 

And gladly would have done, 

The frighted steed he frighted more, 

And made him faster run. 

Away went Gilpin, and away 
Went post-boy at his heels, 

The post-boy’s horse right glad to miss 
The lumbering of the wheels. 

Six gentlemen upon the road, 

Tims seeing Gilpin fly, 

With post-boy scampering in the rear, 
They raised the hue and cry: 

“Stop thief! stop thief!—a highwayman P 
Not one of them was mute ; 

And all and each that pass’d that way 
Did join in the pursuit. 

And now the turnpike-gates again 
Flew open in short space: 

The toll-men thinking as before. 

That Gilpin rode a race. 







HUMOROUS AND Fan I'ASTIC. 


775 


And so he did, and won it too, 

For he got first to town; 

^or stopp d till where he had got up 
He did again get down. 

Now let us sing, Long live the king! 

And Gilpin, long live he; 

And when he next doth ride abroad, 
May I be there to see! 

William Cowpek. 

-o- 

Epigram: “All Saints:’ 

In a church which is furnish’d with mul- 
lion and gable, 

With altar and reredos, with gargoyle 
and groin, 

The penitents’ dresses are sealskin and 
sable, 

The odour of sanctity’s Eau-de-Cologne. 

But only could Lucifer, flying from Hades, 
Gaze down on this crowd with its paniers 
and paints, 

He would say, as he look’d at the lords and 
the ladies, 

“Oh, where is ‘All Sinners’ if this is 
‘All Saints ’ ?” 

Edmund Yates. 

The Sailor's Consolation. 

One night came on a hurricane, 

The sea was mountains rolling, 

When Barney Buntline turned his quid, 
And said to Billy Bowling: 

“A strong nor-wester’s blowing, Bill; 

Hark! don’t ye hear it roar now ? 

Lord help ’em, how I pities all 
Unhappy folks on shore now ! 

“ Foolhardy chaps who live in town, 
What danger they are all in, 

And now are quaking in their beds, 

For fear the roof should fall in : 

Poor creatures, how they envies us, 

And wishes, I’ve a notion, 

For our good luck, in such a storm, 

To be upon the ocean. 


“ But as for them who’re out all day, 

On business from their houses, 

And late at night are coming home, 

To cheer the babes and spouses ; 

While you and I, Bill, on the deck, 

Are comfortably lying, 

My eyes! what tiles and chimney-pots 
About their heads are flying! 

“And very often have we heard 
How men are killed and undone, 

By overturns of carriages, 

By thieves, and fires in London. 

We know what risks all landsmen run, 
From noblemen to tailors; 

Then, Bill, let us thank Providence 

That you and I are sailors !” 

William Pitt. 

Epi gram.— Von et pr jet ere a 

NIHIL. 

“ I WONDER if Brougham thinks as much 
as he talks,” 

Said a punster perusing a trial: 

“ I vow, since his lordship was made Baron 
Vaux, 

He’s been Vaux et prceterea nihil I” 

London Punch. 


The Sorrows of Werther. 

Werther had a love for Charlotte, 
Such as words could never utter; 

Would you know how first he met her} 
She was cutting bread and butter. 

Charlotte was a married lady, 

And a moral man was Werther, 

And for all the wealth of Indies 
Would do nothing for to hurt her. 

So he sigh’d and pined and ogled, 

And his passion boil’d and bubbled, 

Till he blew his silly brains out, 

And no more was by it troubled. 

Charlotte, having seen his body 
Borne before her on a shutter, 

Like a well-conducted person, 

Went on cutting bread and butter. 

William Makepeace Thackeb»*% 










776 


FIRESIDE ENCYCLOPEDIA OF POETRY . 


The Twins. 

In form and feature, face and limb, 

I grew so like my brother, 

That folks got taking me for him, 

And each for one another. 

It puzzled all our kith and kin, 

It reach’d a fearful pitch; 

For one of us was born a twin, 

And not a soul knew which. 

One day, to make the matter worse, 
Before our names were fix’d, 

As we were being wash’d by nurse, 

We got completely mix’d ; 

And thus, you see, by Fate’s decree, 

Or rather nurse’s whim, 

My brother John got christen’d me, 

And I got christen’d him. 

This fatal likeness ever dogg'd 
My footsteps when at school. 

And I was always getting flogg’d 
When John turn’d out a fool. 

I put this question, fruitlessly, 

To every one I knew, 

“What would you do if you were me, 

To prove that you were you?” 

Our close resemblance turned the tide 
Of my domestic life, 

For somehow, my intended bride 
Became my brother’s wife. 

In fact, year after year the same 
Absurd mistakes went on, 

And when I died, the neighbors came 
And buried brother John. 

Henry S. Leigh. 

-o-- 

Where are you Going, my 
Pretty Maid ? 

“Where are you going, my pretty maid?” 
“I am going a-milking, sir,” she said. 
“May I go with you, my pretty maid?” 
“You're kindly welcome, sir,” she said. 
“What is your father, my pretty maid?” 
“My father’s a farmer, sir,” she said. 
“What is your fortune, my pretty maid?” 
“My face is my “ortune, sir,” she said. 
“Then I can’t marry you, my pretty 
maid?” 

“Nobody asked you, sir,” she said. 

Author Unknown. 


A Speculation. 

Of all speculations the market holds 
forth, 

The best that I know for a lover of pelf. 
Is to buy Marcus up at the price he is 
worth, 

And then sell him at that which he sets 
on himself. 

Thomas Moore. 

-o- 

Faithless Nelly Gray. 

A Pathetic Ballad. 

Ben Battle was a soldier bold, 

And used to war’s alarms: 

But a cannon-ball took off his legs, 

So he laid down his arms! 

Now as they bore him off the field. 

Said he, “Let others shoot, 

For here I leave my second leg, 

And the Forty-second Foot!” 

The army-surgeons made him limbs: 

Said he, “They’re only pegs; 

But there’s as wooden Members quite, 

As represent my legs!” 

Now, Ben he loved a pretty maid, 

Her name was Nelly Gray; 

So he went to pay her his devours 
When he’d devour’d his pay! 

But when he called on Nelly Gray, 

She made him quite a scoff; 

And when she saw his wooden legs 
Began to take them off! 

“O Nelly Gray! O Nelly Gray! 

Is this your love so warm? 

The love that loves a scarlet coat 
Should be more uniform!” 

Said she, “I loved a soldier once, 

For he was blithe and brave; 

But I will never have a man 
With both legs in the grave! 

“Before you had those timber toes, 

Your love I did allow; 

But then, you know, you stand upon 
Another footing now!” 









HUMOROUS AND FANTASTIC. 


Ill 


“G Nelly Gray ! O Nelly Gray ! 

For all your jeering speeches, 

At duty’s call, I left my legs, 

In Badajos’s breaches !” 

“ Why, then,” said she, “ you’ve lost the 
feet 

Of legs in war’s alarms, 

And now you cannot wear your shoes 
Upon your feats of arms!” 

u O false and fickle Nelly Gray ! 

I know why you refuse :— 

Though I’ve no feet—some other man 
Is standing in my shoes! 

“ I wish I ne’er had seen your face; 

But now a long farewell! 

For you will be my death ;—alas! 

You will not be my Nell /” 

Now when he went from Nelly Gray, 

His heart so heavy got, 

And life was such a burden grown, 

It made him take a knot! 

So round his melancholy neck, 

A rope he did entwine, 

And, for his second time in life, 

Enlisted in the Line. 

One end he tied around a beam, 

And then removed his pegs, 

And, as his legs were off—of course 
He soon was off his legs ! 

And there he hung, till he was dead 
As any nail in town,— 

For, though distress had cut him up, 

It could not cut him down! 

A dozen men sat on his corpse, 

To find out why he died— 

And they buried Ben in four cross-roads, 
With a stake in his inside! 

Thomas Hood. 

Faithless Sally Brown ; 

An Old Ballad. 

Young Ben he was a nice young man, 

A carpenter by trade; 

And he fell in love with Sally Brown, 
That was a lady’s maid. 


But as they fetch’d a walk one day, 

They met a press-gang crew; 

And Sally she did faint away, 

Whilst Ben he was brought to. 

The boatswain swore with wicked words, 
Enough to shock a saint, 

That though she did seem in a fit, 

’Twas nothing but a feint. 

“.Come, girl,” said he, “hold up your head. 
He’ll be as good as me; 

For when your swain is in our boat, 

A boatswain he will be.” 

So when they’d made their game of her. 
And taken otf her elf, 

She roused, and found she only was 
A-coming to herself. 

“And is lie gone? and is he gone?” 

She cried, and wept outright: 

“ Then I will to the waterside, 

And see him out of sight.” 

A waterman came up to her— 

“ Now, young woman,” said he, 

“If you weep on so, you will make 
Eye-water in the sea.” 

“Alas! they’ve taken my beau Ben 
To sail with old Benbow 

And her woe began to run afresh, 

As if she’d said, Gee woe! 

Says he, “ They’ve only taken him 
To the Tender ship, you see.” 

“ The Tender ship !” cried Sally Brown, 

“ What a hard-ship that must be! 

“ Oh I would I were a mermaid now, 

For then I’d follow him ; 

But oh!—I’m not a fish-woman, 

And so I cannot swim. 

“Alas! I was not born beneath 
The Virgin and the Scales, 

So I must curse my cruel stars, 

And walk about in Wales.” 

Now Ben had sail’d to many a place 
That’s underneath the world, 

But in two years the ship came home, 

And all her sails were furl’d. 







778 


FIRESIDE ENCYCLOPAEDIA OF POETRY. 


But when he call’d on Sally Brown, 

To see how she got on, 

He found she’d got another Ben. 

Whose Christian name was John. 

“O Sally Brown ! O Sally Brown ! 

Kow could you serve me so? 

I’ve met with many a breeze before, 

But never such a blow.” 

Then reading on his 'bacco-box, 

He heaved a bitter sigh, 

And then began to eye his pipe. 

And then to pipe his eye. 

And then he tried to sing “All's well,” 
But could not, though he tried; 

His head was turn’d, and so he chew’d 
His pigtail till he died. 

His death, which happen'd in his berth, 
At forty-odd befell: 

They went and told the sexton, and 
The sexton toll’d the bell. 

Thomas Hood. 

-o- 

A Joke Versified. 

“Come, come,” said Tom’s father, “at 
your time of life, 

There’s no longer excuse for thus play¬ 
ing the rake— 

It is time you should think, boy, of taking 
a wife.” 

“Why, so it is, father—whose wife 
shall I take?” 

Thomas Moore. 

-o- 

A Riddle. 

(the letter h.) 

Twas in heaven pronounced, and muttered 
in hell, 

And echo caught faintly the sound as it 
fell; 

On the confines of earth ’twas permitted to 
rest, 

And the depths of the ocean its presence 
confessed; 

’Twill be found in the sphere when ’tis 
riven asunder, 

Be seen in the lightning and heard in the 
thunder. 


’Twas allotted to man with his earliest 
breath, 

Attends him at birth, and awaits him in 
death, 

Presides over his happiness, honor, and 
health, 

Is the prop of his house, and the end of 
his wealth. 

In the heaps of the miser ’tis hoarded with 
care, 

But is sure to be lost on his prodigal heir. 

It begins every hope, every wish it must 
bound, 

With the husbandman toils, and with mon- 
archs is crowned. 

Without it the soldier, the seaman may 
roam, 

But woe to the wretch who expels it from 
home! 

In the whispers of conscience its voice will 
be found, 

Nor e’en in the whirlwind of passion be 
drowned. 

’Twill not soften the heart, but, though deaf 
to the ear, 

It will make it acutely and instantly hear. 

Yet in shade let it rest, like a delicate 
flower, 

Ah, breath on it softly,—it dies in an hour. 

Catharine M. Fanshawe, 


What Mr. Robinson Thinks. 

Guvener B. is a sensible man ; 

He stays to his home an’ looks arter his 
folks; 

He draws his furrer ez straight ez he can, 

An’ into nobody’s tater-patch pokes ; 

But John P. 

Robinson, he 

Sez he wun’t vote fer Guvener B. 

My ! ain’t it terrible ! Wut shall we du ? 

We can’t never choose him, o’ course,— 
thet’s flat; 

Guess we shall hev to come round (don’t 
you?) 

An’ go in fer thunder an’ guns, an’ all 
that; 

Fer John P. 

Robinson, he 

Sez he wun’t vote fer Guvener B. 







HUMOROUS AND FANTASTIC. 


779 


Gineral C. is a dreffle smart man: 

He’s ben on all sides thet give places 
or pelf; 

But consistency still wuz a part of his 
plan,— 

He’s ben true to one party,—an’ thet is 
himself;— 

So John P. 

Robinson, he 

Sez he shall vote fer Gineral C. 

Gineral C. he goes in fer the war; 

He don’t vally principle more’n an old 
cud; 

WutdidGod make us raytional creeturs fer, 

But glory an’ gunpowder, plunder an’ 
blood ? 

So John P. 

Robinson, he 

Sez he shall vote fer Gineral C. 

We were gittin’ on nicely up here to our 
village, 

With good old idees o’ wut’s right an’ 
wut ain’t, 

We kind o’ thought Christ went agin war 
an’ pillage, 

An’ thet eppy lefts worn’t the best mark 
of a saint ; 

But John P. 

Robinson, he 

Sez this kind o’ thing’s an exploded 
idee. 

The side of our country must oilers be 
took, 

An’ Presidunt Polk, you know, he is 
our country. 

An’ the angel thet writes all our sin in a 
book, 

Puts the debit to him, an’ to us the per 
con try; 

An’ John P. 

Robinson, he 

Sez this is his view o’ the thing to a T. 

Parson Wilbur he calls all these argimunts 
lies; 

Sez they’re nothin’ on airth but jest fee, 
faw, fum: 

An’ thet all this big talk of our destinies 

Is half on it ign’ance, an’ t’other half 
rum; 


But John P. 

Robinson, he 

Sez it ain’t no sech thing; an’, of 
course, so must we. 

Parson Wilbur sez he never heerd in his 
life 

Thet th’ apostles rigg’d out in their 
swaller-tail coats, 

An’ march’d round in front of a drum an’ 
a fife, 

To git some on ’em office, an’ some on 
’em votes; 

But John P. 

Robinson, he 

Sez they didn’t know everythin’ down 
in Judee. 

Wal, it’s a marcy we’ve gut folks to tell us 

The rights and the wrongs o’ these mat¬ 
ters, I vow,— 

God sends country lawyers, an’ other wise 
fellers, 

To start the world’s team when it gits in 
a slough; 

Fer John P. 

Robinson, he 

Sez the world’ll go right ef he hollers 
out Gee I 

James Russell Lowell. 


Parody on Pope. 

Why has not man a collar and a log? 

For this plain reason,—man is not a dog. 
Why is not man served up with sauce in 
dish? 

For this plain reason,—man is not a fish. 

Sydney Smith. 


Song of the Fairies- 

By the moon we sport and play; 

With the night begins? our day: 

As we dance the dew doth fall; 

Trip it, little urchins, all. 

Lightly as the little bee, 

Two by two, and three by three, 

And about go we, and about go we. 

John Lylt. 






780 FIRESIDE ENCYCLOPAEDIA OF POETRY. 


The Jester's Sermon. 


The Jester shook his hood and bells, and 
leap’d upon a chair, 

The pages laugh’d, the women scream’d, 
and toss’d their scented hair; 

The falcon whistled, staghounds bay’d, 
the lapdog bark’d without, 

The scullion dropp’d the pitcher brown, 
the cook rail’d at the lout; 

The steward, counting out his gold, let 
pouch and money fall, 

And why? because the Jester rose to say 
grace in the hall! 

The page play’d with the heron’s plume, 
the steward with his chain, 

The butler drumm’d upon the board, and 
laugh’d with might and main; 

The grooms beat on their metal cans, and 
roar’d till they were red, 

But still the Jester shut his eyes and 
roll’d his witty head; 

And when they grew a little still, read 
half a yard of text, 

And, waving hand, struck on the desk, 
then frown’d like one perplex’d. 

“ Dear sinners all,” the Fool began, “man’s 
life is but a jest, 

A dream, a shadow, bubble, air, a vapor 
at the best. 

In a thousand pounds of law I find not a 
single ounce of love; 

A blind man kill’d the parson’s cow in 
shooting at the dove ; 

The fool that eats till lie is sick must fast 
till he is well; 

The wooer who can flatter most will bear 
away the belle. 

“Let no man halloo he is safe till he is 
through the wood; 

He who will not when he may, must 
tarry when he should; 

He who laughs at crooked men should 
need walk very straight; 

Oh, he who once has won a name may lie 
abed till eight! 

Make haste to purchase house and land, 
be very slow to w r ed ; 

True coral needs no painter’s brush, nor 
need be daub’d with red. 


“The friar, preaching, cursed the thief (the 
pudding in his sleeve), 

To fish for sprats with golden hooks is 
foolish, by your leave,— 

To travel well—an ass’s ears, ape’s face, 
hog’s mouth, and ostrich legs, 

He does not care a pin for thieves who 
limps about and begs. 

Be ahvays first man at a feast and last man 
at a fray; 

The short way round, in spite of all, is 
still the longest way. 

When the hungry curate licks the knife, 
there’s not much for the clerk ; 
When the pilot, turning pale and sick, 
looks up,—the storm grows dark.” 

Then loud they laugh’d, the fat cook’s 
tears ran down into the pan: 

The steward shook, that he was forced 
to drop the brimming can; 

| And then again the women scream’d, and 
every staghound bay’d,— 

| And why? because the motley Fool so wise 
a sermon made. 

George Walter Thorn bury. 

I AM A FRIAR OF ORDERS GRA Y. 

I am a friar of orders gray, 

And down in the valleys I take my way; 

I pull not blackberry, haw, or hip— 

Good store of venison fills my scrip; 

My long bead-roll I merrily chant; 
Where’er I walk no money I want; 

And why I’m so plump the reason I tell— 

| Who leads a good life is sure to live well. 
What baron or squire, 

Or knight of the shire, 

Lives half so well as a holy friar? 

After supper, of heaven I dream, 

But that is a pullet and clouted cream; 
Myself, by denial, I mortify— 

With a dainty bit of a warden pie; 

I’m clothed in sackcloth for my sin— 

With old sack wine I’m lined within ; 

A chirping cup is my matin song, 

And the vesper’s bell is my bowl, ding dong 
What baron or squire, 

Or knight of the shire, 

Lives half so well as a holy friar ? 

1 John O’Keefb. 










Notes 

EXPLANATORY AND CORROBORATIYE. 


Page 7.—Home, Sweet Home !—The following 
additional verses to the song of “Home, Sweet 
Home !’’ Mr. Payne affixed to the sheet music, and 
presented them to Mrs. Bates in London, a rela¬ 
tive of his, and the wife of a rich hanker: 

To ne, in despite of the absence of years, 

How sweet the remembrance of home still appears! 
From allurements abroad, which but flatter the 
eye, 

The unsatisfied heart turns, and says with a sigh, 
“Home, home, sweet, sweet home! 
There’s no place like home! 

There’s no place like home!” 

Your exile is blest with all fate can bestow; 

But mine has been checkered with many a woe! 
Vet, tho’ different our fortunes, our thoughts are 
the same, 

And both, as we think of Columbia, exclaim, 

“ Home, home, sweet, sweet home ! 
There’s no place like home! 

There’s no place like home!” 

—Life and Writings of John Howard Payne, 
4to, Albany, 1875. 

Page 8. — The Cotter’s Saturday Night. — 
The house of William Burns was the scene of 
this fine, devout, and tranquil drama, and William 
himself was the saint, the father, and the hus¬ 
band who gives life and sentiment to the whole. 
“ Robert had frequently remarked to me,” says 
Gilbert Burns, “that he thought there was some¬ 
thing peculiarly venerable in the phrase, ‘Let us 
worship God !’ used by a decent, sober head of a 
family, introducing family worship.” To this 
sentiment of the author the world is indebted for 
the “ Cotter’s Saturday Night.” He owed some 
little, however, of the inspiration to Fergusson’s 
“ Farmer’s Ingle,” a poem of great merit. 

— Burns’s Poetical Works, 8vo ed., Philada. 

Page 7. — Matrimonial Happiness. — Lapraik 
was a very worthy facetious old fellow, late of 
Dalfram near Muirkirk, which little property he 
was obliged to sell in consequence of some con¬ 
nection as security for some persons concerned in 
that villainous bubble, “ The Ayr Bank.” He has 
often told me that he composed this song one day 


when his wife had been fretting over their mis¬ 
fortunes. —Robert Burns. 

Page 10 .— The Mariner’s Wipe. —This most 
felicitous song is better known as “ There’s nae 
Luck about the House.” It first appeared on the 
streets about the middle of the last century, and 
was included in Herd’s Collection, 1776. The 
authorship is a matter of doubt. A copy of it, 
like a first draught, was found among the papers 
of William Julius Mickle, and the song has hence 
been believed to be his, notwithstanding that he 
did not include it in his own works. On the other 
hand, there has been some plausible argument to 
show that it must have been the work of a Mrs. 
Jane Adams, who kept a school at Crawford’s 
Dyke, near Greenock; it is not, however, included 
in her volume of Miscellany Poems, published as 
early as 1734. Jane Adams gave Shakespearian 
readings to her pupils, and so admired Richard¬ 
son’s Clarissa Harlowe that she walked to London 
to see the author. Toward the close of her life she 
became a wandering beggar, died in the poor- 
house of Glasgow on April 3, 1765, and was 
“ buried at the house expense.”— Notes and Que¬ 
ries, Third Series, vol. x. 

Notwithstanding the weighty authority of Notes 
and Queries, I am inclined to ascribe its authorship 
to Jean Adam (not Jane Adams). Mickle never 
lived near a seaport, and never wrote anything 
as good as this poem. The remarkable statement 
that the poem does not appear in any of the pub¬ 
lished works of either claimant is, as far as it 
goes, an argument in favor of Miss Adam. She 
was poor, and probably published but one edition 
of her poems, which had a sale so small that the 
industrious Allibone does not mention her name 
in his Dictionary of Authors, while the scholarly 
translator of the Lusiad published many volumes 
of poems, some of which ran into several editions ; 
and the fact that he never included “ The Mari¬ 
ner’s Wife” in any of them should determine the 
question of its authorship in her favor. 

Page 11 .— The Exile to his Wife. —Joseph 
Brennan was a native of the north of Ireland. 
He joined the Young Ireland party in 1848, and 
was one of the conductors of the Irish Felon. He 

781 






NOTES EXPLANATORY AND CORROBORATIVE. 


782 


was imprisoned for nine months in Dublin, after¬ 
ward edited the Irishman, and in October, 1849, 
being implicated in an insurrectionary movement 
in Tipperary, fled to America. He was for three 
years connected with the New Orleans Delta, and 
died in that city in May, 1857.— Rossiter John¬ 
son’s Single Famous Poems. 

Page80. — Philip my King. —Philip Bourke Mar- 
ston, the blind poet, was born in 1850, and was a 
beautiful child—worthy of this well-known lyric 
from his godmother, Mrs. Craik. But alas for the 
“ large brown eyes ” ! When but three years old, 
in playing with some children, he received a blow 
on one of his eyes, and, inflammation setting in, 
he gradually lost the sight of both eyes. Thus 
cut off from the world without, the inner vision 
was the stronger, and some of his poems, though 
sad, have unusual merit. 

Page 82. — Lady Anne Bothwell’s Lament.— 
The subject of this pathetic ballad the editor 
once thought might possibly relate to the Earl 
of Bothwell, and his desertion of his wife, Lady 
Jean Gordon, to make room for his marriage 
with the Queen of Scots. But this opinion he 
now believes to be groundless; indeed, Earl Both¬ 
well’s age, who was upward of sixty at the time 
of that marriage, renders it unlikely that he 
should be the object of so warm a passion as 
this elegy supposes. He has been since informed 
that it entirely refers to a private story. A young 
lady of the name of Bothwell—or rather Boswell— 
having been, together with her child, deserted by 
her husband or lover, composed these affecting 
lines herself.— Percy’s Reliques. 

Page 33 .— The Angels’ Whisper. —A super¬ 
stition of great beauty prevails in Ireland, that 
when a child smiles in its sleep it is “ talking 
with the angels.” — Lover’s Lyrics of Ireland. 

Page 39. — Golden Tressed Adelaide. —The 
gifted child of the poet, Adelaide Anne Procter. 

Page 53. — The Children in the Wood. — The 
subject of this very popular ballad (which has 
been set in so favorable a light by The Spectator, 
No. 85) seems to be taken from an old play, en¬ 
titled “Two Lamentable Tragedies; the one of the 
murder of Maister Beech, a chandler in Thames- 
streete, etc. The other of a young child murthered 
in a wood by two rufiins, with the consent of his 
unkle. By Rob. Yarrington, 1601, 4to.” Our 
ballad-maker has strictly followed the play in 
the description of the father’s and mother’s dying 
charge; in the uncle’s promise to take care of 
their issue; his hiring two ruffians to destroy his 
wards, under pretence of sending them to school; 
their choosing a wood to perpetrate the murder 
in; one of the ruffians relenting and a battle 
ensuing, etc. In other respects he has departed 


from the play. In the latter the scene is laid in 
Padua; there is but one child, which is murdered 
by a sudden stab of the unrelenting ruffian; he 
is slain himself by his less bloody companion, 
but ere he dies he gives the other a mortal wound, 
the latter living just long enough to impeach the 
uncle, who, in consequence of this impeachment, 
is arraigned and executed by the hand of justice, 
etc. Whoever compares the play with the ballad 
will have no doubt but the former is the original: 
the language is far more obsolete, and such a 
vein of. simplicity runs through the whole per¬ 
formance that, had the ballad been written first, 
there is no doubt but every circumstance of it 
would have been received into the drama; where¬ 
as this was probably built on some Italian novel. 
— Percy's Reliques. 

Page 7 4 . —The Old Oaken Bucket. — The well 
from whose perennial springs Woodworth’s “Old 
Oaken Bucket” gathered its moss flows from the 
bosom of one of those large but gently rising and 
luxuriant hills which undulate the surface of the 
ancient town of Scituate, on the Old Colony coast 
of Massachusetts. On the eastern brow of this 
pleasant highland is his “ father’s plantation,” 
which in the vernal season appears to encircle it 
like an emerald diadem. AVe can best attempt a 
brief description of the natural scenery from which 
he drew the imagery of his poem by following in 
his footsteps through the haunts of his childhood. 
One can see at this day the same “ wide-spreading 
meadows ” which compose the valley of the North 
River and its tributaries. To the right is the 
“orchard,” beyond is the “deep-tangled wild- 
wood,” to the left is the “ pond ” and the “ rock ” 
where the “ cataract fell,” the “ bridge ” and 
“mill that stood by it,” which was called in 1653 
“ the old mill,” and was mentioned in 1640. King 
Philip tried to burn this mill in 1676, and after 
a sanguinary encounter was driven away. The 
pond is fed by a romantic brook, which was a 
favorite place of resort of young Woodworth. A 
short distance up the brook is the site of the 
ancient fulling mill erected in 1653 by James 
Torrey, an ancestor of Everett Torrey, the marble- 
worker in Beverly street. There is no place in 
New England that excels the poet’s neighborhood 
in historic matter. The farm is owned by Henry 
Northey, a descendant of John Northey, who 
settled on the farm in 1675. The well is visited 
by many people, who drink from the crystal 
fountain and pass the bucket from one to another. 
—Boston Transcript. 

AA'hen Woodworth was a journeyman printer in 
an office on the corner of Chatham and Chambers 
streets in New York, near by in Frankfort street 
was a saloon kept by a man named Mallory, where 
Woodworth and several particular friends used 




NOTES EXPLANATORY AND CORROBORATIVE. 


783 


to resort. One afternoon the liquor was unusually 
excellent, and Woodworth seemed inspired by it. 
After taking a draught, he set his glass on the 
table and, smacking his lips, declared that Mal¬ 
lory’s eau de vie was superior to anything he had 
ever tasted. “No,” said Mallory, “you are mis¬ 
taken ; there was one thing which in both our 
estimations surpassed this in the way of drink¬ 
ing.” “ What was that?” asked Woodworth 
dubiously. “ The draught of pure spring water 
that we used to drink from the old oaken bucket 
that hung in the well, after our return from the 
field on a hot day in summer.” A teardrop glis¬ 
tened for a moment in Woodworth’s eye. “ True, 
true!” he replied, and shortly after quitted the 
place. He immediately returned to the office, 
took a pen, and in half an hour “ The Old Oaken 
Bucket ” was ready in manuscript to be embalmed 
in the memories of succeeding generations.— 
George M. Young, in The New England Magazine. 

Rage 75. —Woodman, Spare that Tree.— ' 
“ Riding out of town a few days since, in com¬ 
pany with a friend who was once the expectant ’ 
heir of the largest estate in America, but over | 
whose worldly prospects a blight has recently 
come, he invited me to turn down a little roman¬ 
tic woodland pass not far from Bloomingdale. | 
‘ Your object?’ inquired I.—‘Merely to look once 
more at an old tree planted by my grandfather, 
near a cottage that was once my father’s.’ ‘ The 
place is yours, then?’ said I.—‘No; my poor , 
mother sold it;’ and I observed a slight quiver 
of the lip at the recollection of that circumstance. 

‘ Dear mother!’ resumed my companion; ‘we passed 
many happy, happy days in that old cottage, but 
it is nothing to me now. Father, mother, sisters, 
cottage,—all are gone !’—and a paleness over¬ 
spread his fine countenance and a moisture came 
to his eyes as he spoke. After a moment’s pause 
he added : ‘ Don’t think me foolish. I don’t know 
how it is; I never ride out but I turn down this 
lane to look at that old tree. I have a thousand 
recollections about it, and I always greet it as a 
familiar and well-remembered friend. In the by¬ 
gone summer-time it was a friend indeed. Under 
its branches I often listened to the good counsel 
of my parents, and had such gambols with my 
sisters! Its leaves are all off now, so you won’t 
see it to advantage, for it is a glorious old fellow 
in summer; but I like it full as well in winter¬ 
time.’ These words were scarcely uttered when 
my companion cried out, ‘ There it is !’ Near the 
tree stood an old man, with his coat off, sharpen¬ 
ing an axe. He was the occupant of the cottage. 
‘What do you intend doing?’ asked my friend, 
with great anxiety. ‘ What is that to you ?’ was 
the blunt reply. ‘You are not going to cut that 


tree down, surely ?’ ‘ Yes, but I am, though,’ said 
the woodman. ‘ What for ?’ inquired my compan¬ 
ion, almost choked with emotion.—‘What for? 
Why, because I think proper to do so. What for ? 
I like that! Well, I’ll tell you what for. This 
tree makes my dwelling unhealthy; it stands too 
near the house, prevents the moisture from ex¬ 
haling, and renders us liable to fever and ague.’ 

—‘Who told you that?’—‘Dr. S-.’—‘Have 

you any other reason for wishing to cut it down ?’ 
—‘Yes; I am getting old, the woods are a great 
way off, and this tree is of some value to me to 
burn.’ He was soon convinced, however, that the 
story about the fever and ague was a mere fiction, 
for there never had been a case of that disease in 
the neighborhood, and then was asked what the 
tree was worth for firewood. ‘ Why, when it is 
down, about ten dollars.’—‘ Suppose I make you 
a present of that amount, will you let it stand ?’— 
‘Yes.’ — ‘You are sure of that?’—‘Positive.’— 

‘ Then give me a bond to that effect.’ I drew it 
up; it was witnessed by his daughter; the money 
was paid, and we left the place with an assurance 
from the young girl, who looked as smiling and 
beautiful as a Hebe, that the tree should stand as 
long as she lived. We returned to the road and 
pursued our ride. These circumstances made a 
strong impression upon my mind, and furnished 
me with materials for the song I herewith send 
you.”— From a letter of Geo. P. Morris to Henry 
Russell, the vocalist. 

Page 76 .— The Old Clock on the Stairs. — 
The house commemorated in the poem is the 
Gold-Appleton house—now known as the Plun¬ 
kett mansion—in Pittsfield, Massachusetts. 

Page 81. — Auld Lang Syne. — Of the two 
versions of this song, we adopt for our text that 
supplied to Johnson in preference to the copy 
made for George Thomson. The arrangement of 
the verses is more natural; it wants the redun¬ 
dant syllable in the fourth line of stanza first; and 
the spelling of the Scotch words is more correct. 
The poet transcribed the song for Mrs. Dunlop in 
his letter to her dated 17th December, 1788, and 
it is unfortunate that Dr. Currie did not print a 
verbatim copy of it, along with that letter, in¬ 
stead of simply referring his reader to the Thom¬ 
son correspondence for it. Thomson’s closing 
verse stands second in Johnson, where it seems in 
its proper place, as having manifest reference tc 
the earlier stages of the interview between the 
long-separated friends. Many of our readers 
must have observed that when a social company 
unites in singing the song before dispersing, it is 
the custom for the singers to join hands in a cir¬ 
cle at the words, “And there’s a hand,” etc. 
This ought to conclude the song, with the chorus 
sung rapidly and emphatically thereafter. But 










784 


NOTES EXPLANATORY AND CORROBORATIVE. 


how awkwardly and out of place does the slow 
singing of Thomson’s closing verse come in after 
that excitement!—“ And surely ye’ll be your pint 
stowp,” etc. No, no ! The play is over; no more 
pint stowps!— Burns's Poems, William Scott 
Douglas’s edition. 

Page 87. — Ode to An Indian Gold Coin. —This 
remarkable poem was written in Cherical, Mala¬ 
bar, the author having left his native land, Scot¬ 
land, in quest of a fortune in India. He died 
shortly afterward in Java.— Frederick Saunders’s 
Festival of Song. 

Page 103. —Waly, Waly, But Love be Bon¬ 
ny. —Nothing is known with certainty as to 
the authorship of this exquisite song, one of the 
most affecting of the many that Scotland can 
boast. It had been supposed to refer to an inci¬ 
dent in the life of Lady Barbara Erskine, wife of 
the second Marquis of Douglas; but the allusions 
are evidently to the deeper woes of one not a wife 
■— who “loved not wisely, but too well.” — Illus¬ 
trated Book of Scottish Song. 

Page 112. — The Nut-Brown Maid. — Henry, 
Lord Clifford, first Earl of Cumberland, and Lady 
Margaret Percy his wife, are the originals of this 
ballad. Lord Clifford had a miserly father and 
ill-natured stepmother, so he left home and be¬ 
came the head of a band of robbers. The ballad 
was written in 1502, and says that the “Not- 
browne Mayd ” was wooed and won by a knight 
who gave out that he was a banished man. After 
describing the hardships she would have to under¬ 
go if she married him, and finding her love true 
to the test, he revealed himself to be an earl’s son, 
with large hereditary estates in Westmoreland.— 
Percy’s Reliques (Series II.). 

Page 120. — Highland Mary. — “Highland 
Mary,” says the Hon. A. Erskine in a letter to 
Mr. George Thomson, “is most enchantingly 
pathetic.” Burns says of it himself, in a letter to 
Mr. Thomson: “The foregoing song pleases my¬ 
self; I think it is in my happiest manner; you 
will see at first glance that it suits the air. The 
subject of the song is one of the most interesting 
passages of my youthful days; and I own that I 
should be much flattered to see the verses set to an 
air which would ensure celebrity. Perhaps, after 
all, ’tis the still-glowing prejudice of my heart that 
throws a borrowed lustre over the merits of the 
composition.”— Illustrated Book of Scottish Song. 

The history of this humble maiden is now 
known to all the world, and will continue to be 
remembered as long as Scottish song exists. Her 
name was Mary Campbell, and her parents resided 
at Campbelltown, in Argyleshire. At the time 
Burns became acquainted with her she was ser¬ 
vant at Coilsfield House, the seat of Colonel 


Montgomery, afterward Earl of Eglinton. In 
notes to the Museum, Burns says of the present 
song : “ This was a composition of mine before I 
was known at all to the world. My Highland 
lassie was a warm-hearted, charming young 
creature as ever blessed a man with generous 
love. After a pretty long trial of the most ardent 
reciprocal attachment, we met by appointment on 
the second Sunday of May in a sequestered spot 
on the banks of the Ayr, where we spent the 
day in taking a farewell before she should em¬ 
bark for the West Highlands to arrange matters 
among her friends for our projected change of 
life. At the close of the autumn following she 
crossed the sea to meet me at Greenock, where 
she had scarce landed when she was seized with 
a malignant fever, which hurried my dear girl to 
her grave in a few days, before I could even hear 
of her illness.” Cromek adds a few particulars 
of the final interview of the youthful lovers: 
“ This adieu was performed with all those simple 
and striking ceremonials which rustic sentiment 
has devised to prolong tender emotion and to in¬ 
spire awe. The lovers stood on each side of a 
small purling brook, they laved their hands in the 
limpid stream, and, holding a Bible between them, 
they pronounced their vows to be faithful to each 
other. They parted never to meet again.” Cro- 
mek’s account of this parting interview was con¬ 
sidered somewhat apocryphal till, a good many 
years ago, a pocket Bible in two volumes, pre¬ 
sented by Burns to Mary Campbell, was discovered 
in the possession of her sister at Ardrossan. 
This Bible afterward found its way to Canada, 
whither the family had removed; and having 
excited the interest of some Scotchmen at Mon¬ 
treal, they purchased it (for its possessors were 
unfortunately in reduced circumstances), and had 
it conveyed back to Scotland, with the view of 
being permanently placed in the monument at 
Ayr. On its arrival at Glasgow, Mr. Weir, sta¬ 
tioner. Queen street (through the instrumentality 
of whose son, we believe, the precious relic was 
mainly procured), kindly announced that he 
would willingly show it for a few days at his 
shop to any person who might choose to see it. 
The result was, that thousands flocked to obtain 
a view of this interesting memorial, and the ladies 
in particular displayed an unwonted eagerness 
regarding it, some of them being even moved to 
tears on beholding an object which appealed so 
largely to female sympathies. On the anniver¬ 
sary of the poet in 1841, the Bible, enclosed in an 
oaken glass case, was deposited among other re¬ 
lics in the monument at Ayr. On the boards of 
one of the volumes is inscribed in Burns’s hand¬ 
writing, “And ye shall not swear by my name 
falsely, I am the Lord,” Levit., chap. xix. v. 12; 
and on the other, “ Thou shalt not forswear thy- 







NOTES EXPLANATORY AND CORROBORATIVE. 


785 


self, but shalt perform unto the Lord thine oath,” 
St. Matt., chap. v. v. 33; and on the blank leaves 
of both volumes, “ Robert Burns, Mossgiel.”— 
Burna’a Worlca, Blackie & Son’s ed. 

Page 120. — Sally in Our Alley. — Carey 
says the occasion of his ballad was this: “ A 
shoemaker's apprentice, making holiday with 
his sweetheart, treated her with a sight of Bed¬ 
lam, the puppet-shows, the flying chain, and all 
the elegancies of Moorfields; from whence pro¬ 
ceeding to the Farthing Piehouse, he gave her a 
collation of buns, cheese-cakes, gammon of bacon, 
stuffed beef and bottle ale; through all which 
scenes the author dodged them (charmed with the 
simplicity of their courtship), from whence he 
drew this little sketch of nature.” The song, he 
adds, made its way into the polite world, and 
was more than once mentioned with approbation 
by “ the divine Addison.”— Chambera’a Cyclopaedia 
of English Literature. 

Page 12 4 . — To Althea, from Prison. — This 
excellent sonnet, which possessed a high degree 
of fame among the old Cavaliers, was written by 
Colonel Richard Lovelace during his confinement 
in the Gate-house, Westminster, to which he was 
committed by the House of Commons in April, 
1642, for presenting a petition from the county of 
Kent, requesting them to restore the king to his 
rights and to settle the government. See Wood’s 
Athense, vol. ii., p. 228, and Lysons’s Environs of 
London, vol. i., p. 109, where may be seen at 
large the affecting story of this elegant writer, 
who after having been distinguished for every 
gallant and polite accomplishment, the pattern 
of his own sex and the darling of the ladies, 
died in the lowest wretchedness, obscurity, and 
want in 1658. — Percy’s Beliques. 

Page 126. — Jean. —This song was written in 
celebration of the charms of Jean Armour, after¬ 
ward the poet’s wife. 

“ Of a’ the Airts the Wind can Blaw ” was the 
most universally popular of all Burns’s songs, 
at least in the west of Scotland, and it is still a 
great favorite. The air is by Mr. Marshall, who 
in Burns’s time was butler to the Duke of Gordon, 
and who composed several other fine airs. Only 
the first two stanzas were written by Burns. The 
last two have been ascribed to John Hamilton, 
music-seller, Edinburgh.— Burns’s Worts, Blackie 
k Son’s ed. 

Page 127. — The Eve of St. Agnes. — The 
Feast of St. Agnes was formerly held as in a 
special degree a holiday for women. It was 
thought possible for a girl, on the eve of St. 
Agnes, to obtain by divination a knowledge of 
her future husband. She might take a row of 
Dins, and, plucking them out one after another, 
50 


stick them in her sleeve, singing the whilst a Pa¬ 
ternoster, and thus ensure that her dreams would 
that night present the person in question. Or, 
passing into a different country from that of her 
ordinary residence, and taking her right-leg stock¬ 
ing, she might knit the left garter round it, re¬ 
peating : 

“ I knit this knot, this knot I knit, 

To know the thing I know not yet, 

That I may see 

The man that shall my husband be. 

Not in his best or worst array, 

But what he weareth every day; 

That I to-morrow may him ken 
From among all other men.” 

Lying down on her back that night with her 
hands under her head, the anxious maiden was 
led to expect that her future spouse would appear 
in a dream and salute her with a kiss.— Cham¬ 
bers’s Book of Days. 

Page 136 .— Lochinvar. —The ballad of Lochin- 
var is in a very slight degree founded on a ballad 
called “ Katharine Janfarie.” (See Note to Kath¬ 
arine Janfarie.) 

Page 137 .— Auld Robin Gray. —This beauti¬ 
ful ballad, of which the authorship was long a 
mystery, was written by Lady Anne Lindsay, 
daughter of the Earl of Balcarras, and afterward 
Lady Barnard. It appears to have been com¬ 
posed at the commencement of the year 1772, 
when the author was yet a young girl. It was 
published anonymously, and acquired great pop¬ 
ularity. No one, however, came forward to lay 
claim to the laurels lavished upon it, and a liter¬ 
ary controversy sprang up to decide the author¬ 
ship. Many conjectured that it was as old as the 
days of David Rizzio, if not composed by that 
unfortunate minstrel himself, while others con¬ 
sidered it of much later date. The real author 
was, however, suspected; and ultimately, when 
her ladyship was an old woman, Sir Walter Scott 
received a letter from Lady Anne herself openly 
avowing that she had written it. She stated that 
she had been long suspected by her more intimate 
friends, and often questioned with respect to the 
mysterious ballad, but that she had always man¬ 
aged to keep her secret to herself without a direct 
and absolute denial. She was induced to write the 
song by a desire to see an old plaintive Scottish 
air (“The Bridegroom Grat when the Sun gae£ 
down ”) which was a favorite with her fitted witii 
words more suitable to its character than the ri¬ 
bald verses which had always hitherto, for wan* 
of better, been sung to it. She had previously 
been endeavoring to beguile the tedium occasioned 
by her sister’s marriage and departure for Lon¬ 
don by the composition of verses; but of all she 












78G 


NOTES EXPLANATORY AND CORROBORATIVE. 


had written, either before or since, none have 
reached the merit of this admirable little poem. 
It struck her that some tale of virtuous distress 
in humble life would be most suitable to the plain¬ 
tive character of her favorite air; and she accord¬ 
ingly set about such an attempt, taking the name 
of “Auld Robin Gray” from an ancient herd at 
Balcarras. When she had written two or three of 
the verses she called to her junior sister (after- j 
ward Lady Hardwicke), who was the only per¬ 
son near her, and thus addressed her: “I have 
been writing a ballad, my dear; I am oppressing 
my heroine with many misfortunes; I have al¬ 
ready sent her Jamie to sea, and broken her 
father’s arm, and made her mother fall sick, and 
given her Auld Robin Gray for her lover; but I 
wish to load her with a fifth sorrow within the 
four lines—poor thing! Help me to one.” “ Steal 
the cow, sister Anne,” said the little Elizabeth. 
“The cow,” adds Lady Anne in her letter, “was j 
immediately lifted by me, and the song com¬ 
pleted.”— Illustrated Booh of Scottish Sony. 

Page 137. —To Mary in Heaven. —“ At Ellis- 
land,” says Professor Wilson, “Burns wrote many 
of his finest strains, and, above all, that immor¬ 
tal burst of passion, ‘ To Mary in Heaven.’ This 
celebrated poem was composed in September, 
1789, on the anniversary of the day in which he 
heard of the death of his early love, Mary Camp¬ 
bell. According to Mrs. Burns, he spent that day, 
though laboring under cold, in the usual work of 
his harvest, and apparently in excellent spirits ; 
but as the twilight deepened he appeared to grow 
very sad about something, and at length wan¬ 
dered out to the barnyard, to which his wife, in 
her anxiety for his health, followed him, entreat¬ 
ing him in vain to observe that the frost had set 
in, and to return to the fireside. On being again 
and again requested to do so, he always promised 
compliance, but still remained where he was, 
striding up and down slowly and contemplating 
the sky, which was singularly clear and starry. 
At last Mrs. Burns found him stretched on a 
mass of straw, with his eyes fixed on a beautiful 
planet ‘ that shone like another moon,’ and pre¬ 
vailed on him to come in. He immediately on 
entering the house called for his desk, and wrote 
as they now stand, with all the ease of one copy¬ 
ing from memory, these sublime and pathetic 
verses.”— John Gibson Lockhart. 

Page 1^0. — The Milkmaid’s Song. —This song 
and “The Milkmaid’s Mother’s Answer” have 
been ascribed by some editors to Shakespeare, 
but there is very little doubt but that they were 
written respectively by Marlowe and Raleigh. 
Izaak Walton says, in The Compleat Angler: “As 
I left this place and entered into the next field a 
second pleasure entertained me. ’Twas a hand¬ 


some milkmaid, that had not yet attained so 
much age and wisdom as to load her mind with 
any fears of many things that will never be, as 
too many men too often do; but she cast away 
all care, and sung like a nightingale. Her voice 
was good, and the ditty suited for it. 'Twas that 
smooth song which was made by Kit Marlow now 
at least fifty years ago; and the milkmaid’s mo¬ 
ther sung an answer to it, which was made by 
Sir Walter Raleigh in his younger days. They 
were old-fashioned poetry, but choicely good; I 
think much better than the strong lines that are 
now in fashion in this critical age. Look yon¬ 
der ! On my word, yonder they both be a-milk¬ 
ing again ! I will give her the chub, and per¬ 
suade them to sing those two songs to us.” 

Page 1^5. — Maid of Athens. —Our servant, 
who had gone before to procure accommodation, 
met us at the gate and conducted us to Theodora 
Maori, the Consulina’s, where we at present live. 
This lady is the widow of the consul, and has 
three lovely daughters; the eldest celebrated for 
her beauty, and said to be the subject of those 
stanzas by Lord Byron— 

“ Maid of Athens, ere we part, 

Give, oh, give me back my heart!” eto. 

Theresa, the Maid of Athens, Catinco, and Mari¬ 
ana, are of middle stature. On the crown of the 
head of each is a red Albanian skull-cap, with a 
blue tassel spread out and fastened down like a 
star. Near the edge or bottom of the skull-cap 
is a handkerchief of various colors bound around 
their temples. The youngest wears her hair loose, 
falling on her shoulders—the hair behind descend¬ 
ing down the back nearly to the waist, and, as 
usual, mixed with-silk. The two eldest generally 
have their hair bound, and fastened under the 
handkerchief. Their upper robe is a pelisse edged 
with fur, hanging loose down to the ankles; be¬ 
low is a handkerchief of muslin covering the 
bosom and terminating at the waist, which is 
short; under that, a gown of striped silk or 
muslin, with a gore round the swell of the loins, 
falling in front in graceful negligence; white 
stockings and yellow slippers complete their 
attire. The two eldest have black or dark hair 
and eyes; their visage oval and complexion some¬ 
what pale, with teeth of dazzling whiteness. 
Their cheeks are rounded and nose straight, 
rather inclined to aquiline. The youngest, Mari¬ 
ana, is very fair, her face not so finely rounded, 
but has a gayer expression than her sisters’, 
whose countenances, except when the conversa¬ 
tion has something of mirth in it, may be said to 
be rather pensive. Their persons are elegant ani 
their manners pleasing and lady-like, such as 
would be fascinating in any country. They pos- 








NOTES EXPLANATORY AND CORROBORATIVE. 


787 


sess very considerable powers of conversation, 
and their minds seem to be more instructed than 
those of the Greek women in general. With such 
attractions it would, indeed, be remarkable if 
they did not meet with great attention from the 
travellers who occasionally are resident in Athens. 
They sit in the Eastern style, a little reclined, 
with their limbs gathered under them on the 
divan, and without shoes. Their employments 
are the needle, tambourine, and reading.— Trav¬ 
els in Italy, Greece, etc., by II. W. Williams, Esq. 

Page 145. — Bonnie Lesley. — The poet, in a 
letter to Mrs. Dunlop dated August, 1792, de¬ 
scribes the influence which the beauty of Miss 
Lesley Baillie exercised over his imagination. 
“ Know, then,” said he, “ that the heartstruck 
awe, the distant, humble approach, the delight 
we should have in gazing upon and listening to 
a messenger of heaven, appearing in all the un¬ 
spotted purity of his celestial home among the 
coarse, polluted, far inferior sons of men, to de¬ 
liver to them tidings that make their hearts swim 
in joy and their imaginations soar in transport,— 
such, so delighting and so pure, were the emo¬ 
tions of my soul on meeting the other day with 
Miss Lesley Baillie, your neighbor. Mr. Baillie 
with his two daughters, accompanied by Mr. H. 
of G., passing through Dumfries a few days ago 
on their way to England, did me the honor of 
calling on me, on which I took my horse (though 
God knows I could ill spare the time!) and ac¬ 
companied them fourteen or fifteen miles, and 
dined and spent the day with them. ’Twas about 
nine, I think, when I left them, and riding home 
I composed the following ballad.” — Burns’s 
Poems. 

Page 166. — Jessy. — The Jessy of this and 
several other songs was Jessy Lewars, sister of 
a fellow-exciseman of Burns in Dumfries. She 
was distinguished from many of his contem- 
porarary admirers by the affectionate sympathy 
which she always had for him and for his wife, 
and which during his last illness took the form 
of a daughter’s watchful care. This is the last 
song Burns ever wrote.— Mary Carlyle Aitken. 

Page 167. —When the Kye comes Hame. —In 
the title and chorus of this favorite little pas¬ 
toral I choose rather to violate a rule in gram¬ 
mar than a Scottish phrase so common that when 
it is altered into the proper way every shepherd 
and shepherd’s sweetheart accounts it nonsense. 
I was once singing it at a wedding with great 
glee the latter way (“ When the kye come 
hame ”), when a tailor, scratching his head, said, 
“ It was a terrible affected way, that! ’ I stood 
corrected, and have never sung it so again.— 
Hogg’s Poems. 


Page 170. —The Bank o’ Doon. —“Miss Mar¬ 
garet K-was the daughter of a land-proprietor 

in Carrick; Burns met her at the house of a 
Mauchline friend where she was paying a visit. 
The lively conversation of the young lady, her 
youth and beauty, deeply impressed the suscepti¬ 
ble poet, and he made her the subject of the song 
(entitled ‘Young Peggy’) which he sent to her 
enclosed in a letter. The bard could little imag¬ 
ine the sad fate which was in reality in store for 
Young Peggy. When she was but seventeen, a 
train of circumstances commenced which was to 
end in the loss of her good name and her early 
death, and it is to her unhappy story that this 
song refers.”— Notes to Burns's Poems. 

Page 17S. —A Pastoral. —The Phoebe of this 
admired pastoral was Joanna, the daughter of 
the very learned Dr. Richard Bentley, archdeacon 
and prebendary of Ely, regius professor and mas¬ 
ter of Trinity College, Cambridge, who died in 1742. 
She was afterward married to Dr. Dennison Cum¬ 
berland, bishop of Clonfert in Ivillaloe in Ireland, 
and grandson of Dr. Richard Cumberland, bishop 
of Peterborough.— Spectator, No. 603, note. 

Page 179. —Castara. —Castara was a daugh¬ 
ter of William Herbert, first Lord Powis, and be¬ 
came the wife of the poet. There are no purer 
and few more graceful records of a noble attach¬ 
ment than that which is contained in the poems 
to which Habington has given the name of the 
lady of his happy love.— Richard Chenevix Trench. 

Page 185. —To his Mistress, the Queen of Bo¬ 
hemia. — On that amiable princess, Elizabeth, 
daughter of James I. and wife of the Elector Pala¬ 
tine, who was chosen King of Bohemia September 
5, 1619. The consequences of this fatal election 
are well known. Sir Henry Wotton, who in that 
and the following year was employed in several 
embassies in Germany in behalf of this unfortu¬ 
nate lady, seems to have had an uncommon attach¬ 
ment to her merit and fortunes; for he gave away 
a jewel that was worth a thousand pounds, that 
was presented to him by the emperor, “ because it 
came from an enemy to his royal mistress the 
Queen of Bohemia” (“for so,” says Walton in 
The Life of Wotton, “she was pleased he should 
always call her”).— Bellew’s Poets’ Comer. 

Page 186. — Jenny Kissed Me. —Leigh Hunt 
called on Carlyle to inform him of some very 
pleasant piece of news. Mrs. Carlyle, who was 
in the room at the time, was so delighted that she 
jumped up and kissed him. On his return home 
he wrote this pretty little compliment. . 

Page 199. —Annie Laurie.— 

MAXWELTON BANKS. 

Maxwelton banks are bonnie, 

Where early fa's the dew; 







NOTES EXPLANATORY AND CORROBORATIVE. 


788 


Where me and Annie Laurie 
Made up the promise true; 

Made up the promise true, 

And never forget will I; 

And for bonnie Annie Laurie 
I'll lay me doun and die. 

She’s backit like the peacock, 

She’s breistit like the swan, 

She’s jimp about the middle, 

Her waist ye weel micht span ; 

Her waist ye weel micht span, 

And she has a rolling eye; 

And for bonnie Annie Laurie 
I’ll lay me doun and die. 

“These two verses,” as we are informed by Mr. 
Robert Chambers, “were written by Mr. ltouglas 
of Finland upon Annie, one of the four daugh¬ 
ters of Sir Robert Laurie, first baronet of Max- 
weiton, by his second wife, who was a daughter 
of Riddell of Minto. As Sir Robert was created a 
baronet in the year 1685, it is probable that the 
verses were composed about the end of the seven¬ 
teenth or the beginning of the eighteenth century. 
It is painful to record that, notwithstanding the 
ardent and chivalrous affection displayed by Mr. 
Douglas in his poem, he did not obtain the heroine 
for a wife; she was married to Mr. Ferguson of 
Craigdarroch.” 

Page 225 .— The Good Lord Clifford. —Mr. 
Southey, describing the mountain-scenery of the 
Lake region, says : “ The story of the shepherd 
Lord Clifford, which was known only to a few an¬ 
tiquarians till it was told so beautifully in verse 
by Wordsworth, gives a romantic history to Blen- 
cathara.” Henry, Lord Clifford, was the son of 
John, Lord Clifford, who was slain at Towton, 
which battle placed the House of York upon the 
throne. His family could expect no mercy from 
the conqueror, for he was the man who slew the 
younger brother of Edward IV. in the battle of 
Wakefield—a deed of cruelty in a cruel age. The 
hero of this poem fled from his paternal home, 
and lived for twenty-four years as a shepherd. 
He was restored to his rank and estates by Henry 
VII. The following narrative is from an old MS. 
quoted by Mr. Southey: 

“ So in the condition of a shepherd’s boy at 
Lonsborrow, where his mother then lived for the 
most part, did this Lord Clifford spend his youth, 
till he was about fourteen years of age, about 
which time his mother’s father, Henry Bromflett, 
Lord Vesey, deceased. But a little after his death 
it came to be rumored, at the court, that his daugh¬ 
ter’s two sons were alive, about which their mother 
was examined; but her answer was, that she had 
given directions to send them both beyond seas, 
to be bred there, and she did not know whether 
they were dead or alive. 


“ And as this Henry, Lord Clifford, did grow to 
more years, he was still the more capable of his 
danger, if he had been discovered. And therefore 
presently after his grandfather, the Lord Vesey, 
was dead, the said rumor of his being alive being 
more and more whispered at the court, made his 
said loving mother, by the means of her second 
husband, Sir Launcelot Threlkeld, to send him 
away with the said shepherds and their wives 
into Cumberland, to be kept as a shepherd there, 
sometimes at Threlkeld, and amongst his father- 
in-law’s kindred, and sometimes upon the borders 
of Scotland, where they took lands purposely for 
these shepherds that had the custody of him ; where 
many times his father-in-law came purposely to 
visit him, and sometimes his mother, though very 
secretly. By which mean kind of breeding this 
inconvenience befell him, that he could neither 
write nor read; for they durst not bring him up 
in any kind of learning, lest by it his birth should 
be discovered. Yet, after he came to his lands 
and honors, he learnt to write his name only. 

“ Notwithstanding which disadvantage, after he 
came to be possessed again, and restored to the 
enjoyment of his father’s estate, he came to be a 
very wise man, and a very good manager of his 
estate and fortunes. 

“This Henry, Lord Clifford, after he came to be 
possessed of his said estate, was a great builder 
and repairer of all his castles in the North, which 
had gone to decay when he came to enjoy them; 
for they had been in strangers’ hands about twen¬ 
ty-four or twenty-five years. Skipton Castle, and 
the lands about it, had been given to William 
Stanley by King Edw r ard IV., which William 
Stanley’s head was cut off about the tenth year of 
King Henry VII.; and Westmoreland was given 
by Edward IV. to his brother Richard, Duke of 
Gloucester, who was afterward king of England, 
and was slain in battle, the 22d of August, 1485. 

“ This Henry, Lord Clifford, did, after he came 
to his estate, exceedingly delight in astronomy 
and the contemplation of the course of the stars, 
which it is likely he was seasoned in during the 
course of his shepherd’s life. He built a great 
part of Barden Tower (which is now much de¬ 
cayed), and there he lived much; which it is 
thought he did the rather because in that place 
he had furnished himself with instruments for 
that study. 

“He was a plain man, and lived for the most 
part a country life, and came seldom either to the 
court or London but when he was called thither 
to sit in them as a peer of the realm, in which par¬ 
liament, it is reported, he behaved himself wisely, 
and nobly, and likeagood Englishman.”— Knight’s 
Half Honrs with the Best Authors. 

Page 235 .— Epitaph ox the Countess of Pem- 
rrokEv— Xu til© Jacobean age the herse was a 






NOTES EXPLANATORY AND CORROBORATIVE. 


789 


stage of wood with sable drapery set up in the 
centre of the church to support the coffin during 
the funeral, and afterward removed to stand over 
the grave in the chancel or chapel until the 
marble tomb was ready to replace it. While the 
herse was so standing a poetic mourner might lay 
upon it a scroll containing appropriate verse. 
Such a written scroll was an epitaph. 

In October, 1621, William Browne laid upon 
the herse of the countess dowager of Pembroke, 
then standing in Salisbury Cathedral, an epitaph 
1 —a scroll in which he had written these very 
lines, without stops or signature : 

“ Underneath this sable Herse 
Lies the subject of all verse 
Sydneyes sister Pembrokes mother 
Death ere thou hast slain another 
Faire & learn’d & good as she 
Tyme shall throw a Dart at thee 
Marble Pyles let no man raise 
To her name for after dayes 
Some kind woman borne as she 
Reading this like Niobe 
Shall turn Marble & become 
Both her Mourner and her Tombe” 

Collectors of such pieces wrote this, often from 
imperfect memory, in their books. In 1650, Wil¬ 
liam Browne wrote in a book some of his shorter 
poems, among them this epitaph, and signed his 
name thereto, eight years before any version of 
the epitaph appeared in print, and one hundred 
and six years before Peter Whalley, editing Ben 
Jonson’s works, claimed it for that poet. Wil¬ 
liam Browne’s book is in the British Museum, 
Lansd. MS. 777. In 1815 it was privately printed 
by Sir Egerton Brydges, who, however, fancifully 
rearranged the poems, and did not understand this 
epitaph .—Henry Salisbury Milman. 

Page 235 .— On Lucy, Countess of Bedford.— 
Lucy, the lady of Edward, third Earl of Bedford, 
and daughter of John, Lord Harrington. She 
was a munificent patron of genius, and seems to 
have been peculiarly kind to Jonson. One of the 
most exquisite compliments that ever was offered 
to talents, beauty, and goodness was paid by the 
graceful poet to this lady The biographers are 
never weary of repeating after one another that 
she was “ the friend of Donne and Daniel, who 
wrote verses on her,” but of Jonson, who wrote 
more than both, they preserve a rigid silence.— 
Jonson’8 Works, vol. vii. 

Page 236 .— Sonnet to Cyriac Skinner. —Cyriae 
Skinner was one of the principal members of Har¬ 
rington’s political club. Wood says that he was 
“an ingenious young gentleman and scholar to 
John Milton.” 


Page 237. —Milton’s Prayer of Patience.— 
This poem, so Miltonic in its purity and force of 
expression, was at first attributed to the great 
poet himself, and was actually published in an 
English edition of his works as a recently-dis¬ 
covered poem by him. 

Page 237. —To the Lady Margaret Ley. —The 
daughter of Sir James Ley, whose singular learn¬ 
ing and abilities raised him through all the great 
posts of the law till he came to be made Earl of 
Marlborough, Lord High Treasurer, and Lord Pres¬ 
ident of the Council to King James I. 

Page 237. — Lycidas. —The name under which 
Milton celebrates the untimely death of Edward 
King, Fellow of Christ College, Cambridge, who 
was drowned in his passage from Chester to Ire¬ 
land, August 10th, 1637. He was the son of Sir 
John King, Secretary for Ireland.— Brewer’s Dic¬ 
tionary of Phrase and Fable. 

Page 2/fl. — An Horatian Ode. —This ode was 
written in the summer of 1650, after Cromwell’s 
return from the campaign in Ireland, and after he 
had been designated for the expedition to Scot¬ 
land, but while as yet the “laureat wreath” of 
Dunbar Field was unwon. 

Page 2 ^ 7 .— On the Death of Dr. Levett.— 
In one of his (Johnson’s) memorandum-books in 
my possession is the following entry: “January 
20, Sunday, 1782, Robert Levett was buried in 
the churchyard of Bridewell between one and two 
in the afternoon. He died on Thursday, 17, about 
seven in the morning, by an instantaneous death. 
He was an old and faithful friend. I have known 
him from about 1746. Commendavi. May God 
have mercy on him! May He have mercy on 
me!” Boswell quotes as follows from “ Critical 
Remarks” by Nathan Drake, M. D.: “The stan¬ 
zas on the death of this man of great but humble 
utility are beyond all praise. The wonderful 
powers of Johnson were never shown to greater 
advantage than on this occasion, where the sub¬ 
ject, from its obscurity and mediocrity, seemed 
to bid defiance to poetical efforts; it is, in fact, 
warm from the heart, and is the only poem from 
the pen of Johnson that has been bathed with 
tears. Would to God that on every medical man 
who attends the poor such encomiums could be 
justly passed!”— Boswell’s Life of Johnson. 

Page 2 ^ 9 . —Elegy on Captain Matthew Hen¬ 
derson. —Captain Matthew Henderson, a gentle¬ 
man of very agreeable manners and great pro-j 
priety of character, usually lived in Edinburgh, 
dined constantly at Fortune’s Tavern, and was a 
member of the Capillaire Club, which was com¬ 
posed of all who desired to be thought witty or 
joyous. lie died in 1789. Burns, in a note t<z 





790 


NOTES EXPLANATORY AND CORROBORATIVE. 


the poem, says: “ I loved the man much, and 
have not flattered his memory.” Henderson seems, 
indeed, to have been universally liked. “In our 
travelling party,” says Sir James Campbell of 
Ardkinglass, “ was Matthew Henderson, then 
(1759) and afterward well known and much es¬ 
teemed in the town of Edinburgh, at that time an 
officer in the Twenty-fifth regiment of foot, and, 
like myself, on his way to join the army; and I 
may say with truth that in the course of a long 
life I have never known a more estimable cha¬ 
racter than Matthew Henderson.”— Memoirs of 
Campbell of Ardkinglass. 

Page 253 .— Burial op Sir John Moore.— 
Sir John Moore often said that if he were killed 
in battle he wished to be buried where he fell. 
The body was removed at midnight to the citadel 
of Corunna. A grave was dug for him on the 
rampart there by a body of the Ninth regiment, 
the aides-de-camp attending by turns. No coffin 
could be procured, and the officers of his staff 
wrapped the body, dressed as it was, in a military 
cloak and blanket. The interment was hastened, 
for about eight in the morning some firing was 
heard, and the officers feared that if a serious 
attack were made they should be ordered away 
and not suffered to pay him their last duty. The 
officers of his family bore him to the grave, the 
funeral service was read by the chaplain, and the 
corpse was covered with earth.— Edinburgh An- 
nual Register (1808). 

Page 253. — Oh, Breathe not his Name. —This 
poem refers to Robert Emmett, an eloquent Irish 
enthusiast, born in Cork in 1780. He was an 
ardent but misguided partisan of Irish independ¬ 
ence, and appears to have been a sincere patriot. 
He was one of the chiefs of the “United Irish¬ 
men.” In July, 1803, he rashly put himself at 
the head of a party of insurgents consisting of 
the rabble of Dublin, who murdered the chief- 
justice, Lord Ivilwarden, and others, but were 
quickly dispersed by the military. Emmett was 
arrested, was tried, and after an eloquent and 
impassioned speech in vindication of his course, 
suffered with intrepid courage a felon’s death, 
September, (803. — Thomas’s Biographical Dic¬ 
tionary. 

Page 26 4 . — The Lost Leader. —Many have 
been the speculations and surmises and asser¬ 
tions and contradictions as to who the “ lost 
leader” was. The verdict of one of the immor¬ 
tals on his fellow-immortal concerns us all; hence 
it is with no common thankfulness that the editor 
of Wordsworth’s prose embraces this opportunity 
of settling the controversy beyond appeal by giv¬ 
ing a letter which Mr. Browning has done him 
the honor to write for publication. It is as 
follows: 


“ 19 Warwick-crescent, W., 

“ Dear Mr. Grosart : “ Feb. 24, ’75. 

“ I have been asked the question you now address me 
with, and as duly answered it, I can’t remember how 
many times; there is no sort of objection to one more 
assurance or rather confession on my part, that I 
did in my hasty youth presume to use the great and 
venerated personality of Wordsworth as a sort of 
painter’s model; one from which this or the other 
particular feature may he selected and turned to ac¬ 
count : had I intended more, above all, such a boldness 
as portraying the entire man, I should not have talked 
about 1 handfuls of silver and bits of ribbon.’ These 
never influenced the change of politics in the great 
poet, whose defection, nevertheless, accompanied as it 
was by a regular faee-about of his special party, was 
to my juvenile apprehension, and even mature con¬ 
sideration, an event to deplore. But just as in the 
tapestry on my wall I can recognize figures which 
have struck out a fancy, on occasion, that though 
truly enough thus derived, yet would be preposterous 
as a copy, so, though I dare not deny the original of 
my little poem, I altogether refuse to have it con¬ 
sidered as the ‘ very effigies ’ of such a moral and in¬ 
tellectual superiority. 

“ Faithfully yours, 

“ Robert Browning.” 

—Preface to Wordsworth’s Prose Works. 

Page 268. — Ichabod. —“And she named the 
child Ichabod, saying, The glory is departed 
from Israel.” 1 Samuel iv. 21. This poem was 
written upon receipt of the intelligence of Dan* 
iel Webster’s speech in the U. S. Senate, March 
7, 1850, in defence of the Compromise measures, 
and especially of the Fugitive Slave Law. 

Page 281. — Anne Hathaway. —The Critic for 
May 17th, 1884, has the following note : “ Mr. Rolfo 
is anxious to trace that one of the two ballads en ¬ 
titled ‘ Anne Hathaway ’ in which the lady’s name 
is played upon. The verses, falsely ascribed to 
Shakespeare, appear in various anthologies of 
recent date. We are happy to be able to direct 
Mr. Rolfe to the book in which the ballad first 
appeared. It is entitled A Tour in Quest of a 
Genealogy through several parts of Wales, Som¬ 
ersetshire, and Wiltshire, with a Description of 
Stourhead and Stonehenge, various Anecdotes and 
Curious Fragments from a Manuscript Collection 
ascribed to Shakespeare. By a Barrister. Lon¬ 
don : Sherwood , Neely & Jones. 1811. The ‘ F) ag- 
ments’ consist of a ‘poem to Anne Hathaway, 
from W. S.;’ a ‘Letter’ inscribed to ‘Mistress 
Judith Hathaway,’ from William Shakespeare; 
A few items from his [Shakespeare’s] Journal, 
and a sample of his own Memoirs by himself;’ 
‘A Song to her owne Lovynge Willie Shak- 
speare,’ by ‘ Anna Hatheway;’ ‘ To the Belovyd 
of the Muses and Mee,’ by ‘Anna Hatheway;’ 
a letter ‘To Master William Benson,’ by ‘W. S.;’ 
and ‘ To the peerlesse Anna, magnette of my af- 
fectionnes.’ It is a rare volume, but Mr. Rolfe 




NOTES EXPLANATORY AND CORROBORATIVE. 


791 


will probably find a copy of it in the Barton 
collection.” 

We find the volume in the Barton Collection, 
but we cannot find in it any poem playing upon 
the name of Anne Hathaway. The one profess¬ 
ing to be “to Anne Hathaway from W. S.” is 
much shorter than the ballad in question, and 
does not contain the lady’s name at all. We learn, 
however, from Mr. Arthur M. Knapp of the Bos¬ 
ton Public Library that the ballad (“ Would ye be 
taught, ye feathered throng,” etc.) was written by 
Charles Dibdin, and is credited to him in the Ap¬ 
pendix to the Barton Catalogue, p. 224—where it 
did not occur to us to look for it. It may be 
found set to music in the edition of Dibdin’s 
Songs, published by Davidson (London, 1848), 
vol. ii. p. 127. — Literary World. 

Page 282. —J acqueminot .—Jean Francois 
Jacqueminot was born at Nancy, May 23, 1787* 
Graduating at the military academy at the age of 
eighteen, he at once entered Napoleon’s army, and 
won his spurs at the brilliant victory of Austerlitz, 
and soon attained the full rank of colonel. He par¬ 
ticipated in the battles of Essling and Wagram, and 
in the disastrous retreat from Moscow he especially 
distinguished himself for his bravery at the cross¬ 
ing of Beresina. At Quatre Bras he led a brilliant 
charge, and at Waterloo his bravery was conspic¬ 
uous, for which he afterward received the ribbon 
of the Legion of Honor and was promoted to the 
command of a brigade. In 1827 he was a deputy 
from the department of the Vosges, and was famous 
for his oratorical powers. In the insurrection of 
1830 he organized the expedition against Ram- 
bouillet which determined Charles X. to abdicate 
the throne. In 1834 he was elevated to the grade 
of general, and finally marshal, and in 1840 was a 
member of the Thiers cabinet. He died April, 
1848. 

Page 282. —A Health. —The heroine of this 
poem, whose secondary title is “ To the most 
beautiful woman in America," was Mrs. Marga¬ 
ret Eaton, the beautiful widow of Major Timber- 
lake, whose subsequent marriage to Major Eaton, 
the Secretary of War in Jackson’s famous 
“ Kitchen ” Cabinet, caused so much commotion 
in social and political circles. 

Page 291. —Harmozan.— After a noble defence, 
Harmozan, the prince or satrap of Ahwaz and 
Susa, was compelled to surrender his person and 
his state to the discretion of the caliph; and 
their interview exhibits a portrait of the Arabian 
manners. In the presence and by the command 
of Omar the gay barbarian was despoiled of his 
silken robes embroidered with gold, and of his 
tiara bedecked with rubies and emeralds. “Are 
you not sensible,” said the conqueror to his naked 
captive—“are you not sensible of the judgment 


of God, and of the different rewards of infidel¬ 
ity and obedience?”—“Alas!” replied Harmo¬ 
zan, “I feel them too deeply. In the days of our 
common ignorance we fought with the weapons 
of the flesh, and my nation was superior. God 
was then neuter; since He has espoused your 
quarrel you have subverted our kingdom and 
religion.” Oppressed by this painful dialogue, 
the Persian complained of intolerable thirst, but 
discovered some apprehension lest he should be 
killed whilst he was drinking a cup of water. 
“Be of good courage,” said the caliph; “your 
life is safe till you have drunk this water.” The 
crafty satrap accepted the assurance, and instant¬ 
ly dashed the vase against the ground. Omar 
would have avenged the deceit, but his compan¬ 
ions represented the sanctity of an oath; and the 
speedy conversion of Harmozan entitled him not 
only to a free pardon, but even to a stipend of 
two thousand pieces of gold. — Gibbon’s Rome, 
chap. li. 

Page 293. — Crescentius. —Crescentius was con¬ 
sul of the Romans in the reign of the Emperor 
Otho III. He attempted to shake off the Saxon 
yoke, and was besieged by Otho in the Mole of 
Hadrian (long called the Tower of Crescentius). 
He was betrayed and beheaded.— Bellew’s Poets’ 
Corner. 

Page 294 •— The Bard. —This ode is founded 
on a tradition current in Wales, that Edward I., 
when he completed the conquest of that country, 
ordered all the Bards that fell into his hands 
to be put to death. The original argument of 
this ode, as Mr. Gray had set it down in one 
of the pages of his commonplace book, was as 
follows: The army of Edward I., as they march 
through a deep valley, are suddenly stopped by 
the appearance of a venerable figure seated on 
the summit of an inaccessible rock, who, with a 
voice more than human, reproaches the king 
with all the misery and desolation which he had 
brought on his country; foretells the misfortunes 
of the Norman race, and with prophetic spirit 
declares that all his cruelty shall never extinguish 
the noble ardor of poetic genius in this island; 
and that men shall never be wanting to celebrate 
true virtue and valor in immortal strains, to ex¬ 
pose vice and infamous pleasure, and boldly cen¬ 
sure tyranny and oppression. His song ended, 
he precipitates himself from the mountain, and 
is swallowed up by the river that rolls at its 
foot.— Gray’s Poems. 

Page 296. —A Very Mournful Ballad. —The 
effect of the original ballad (which existed both 
in Spanish and Arabic) was such that it was for¬ 
bidden to be sung by the Moors, on pain of death, 
within Granada.— Byron’s Poems. 






792 


NOTES EXPLANATORY AND CORROBORATIVE. 


Page 298. —Make Way for Liberty ! —This 
poem is founded on the heroic achievement of 
Arnold de Winkelried at the battle of Sempach, 
which was fought on the 9th of July, 1386. In 
this battle the Swiss gained a great victory over 
Leopold, Duke of Austria, and secured the liberty 
of their country, which had been grossly op¬ 
pressed by Austria. 

Page 299. —The Ballad of Agincourt.— In 
the battle of Agincourt, fought on the 25th of 
October, 1415, Henry V. of England, with an 
army of about ten thousand men, totally defeated 
the French under the Constable d’Albret. The 
French army consisted of about sixty thousand 
men. 

Page 8Q0 .— The Ballad of Chevy Chace.— 
There had long been a rivalry between the 
families of Percy and Douglas, which showed 
itself by incessant raids into each other’s terri¬ 
tory. Percy of Northumberland one day vowed 
he would hunt for three days in the Scottish 
border without condescending to ask leave of 
Earl Douglas. The Scottish warden said in his 
anger, “ Tell this vaunter he shall find one day 
more than sufficient.” The ballad called “ Chevy 
Chace ” mixes up this hunt with the battle of 
Otterburn, which, Dr. Percy justly observes, was 
“a very different event.” Chevy Chace means the 
chase or hunt among the “ Chyviat hyls.” — 
Brewer’s Dictionary of Phrase and Fable. 

Page 303. — Edinburgh after Flodden. —The 
great battle of Flodden was fought upon the 9tli 
of September, 1513. The defeat of the Scottish 
army, resulting mainly from the fantastic ideas 
of chivalry entertained by James IV., and his 
refusal to avail himself of the natural advantages 
of his position, was by far the most disastrous of 
any recounted in the history of the northern 
wars. The whole strength of the kingdom, both 
Lowland and Highland, was assembled, and the 
contest was one of the sternest and most des¬ 
perate upon record. For several hours the issue 
seemed doubtful. On the left the Scots obtained 
a decided advantage; on the right they were 
broken and overthrown; and at last the whole 
weight of the battle was brought into the centre, 
where King James and the Earl of Surrey com¬ 
manded in person. The determined valor of 
James, imprudent as it was, had the effect of 
rousing to a pitch of desperation the courage of 
the meanest soldiers; and the ground becoming 
soft and slippery from blood, they pulled off 
their boots and shoes, and secured a firmer foot¬ 
ing by fighting in their hose. Both parties did 
wonders, but none performed more than the king. 
He would fight not only in person, but on foot. 
At first he had abundance of success; but at 
length his battalion was surrounded, and the 


Scots formed themselves into a ring, and, being 
resolved to die nobly with their sovereign, who 
scorned to ask quarter, were altogether cut off. 
The loss of the Scots was about ten thousand 
men. The loss to Edinburgh was peculiarly 
great. All the magistrates and able-bodied citi¬ 
zens had followed their king to Flodden, whenc 
very few of them returned. The news of the 
overthrow on the field of Flodden overwhelmed 
the inhabitants with grief and confusion. The 
streets were crowded with women seeking in¬ 
telligence about their friends, clamoring and 
weeping. The city banner referred to in the 
poem is a standard still held in great honor by 
the burghers, having been presented to them by 
James III. in return for their loyal service in 
1482. This banner, still conspicuous in the 
library of the Faculty of Advocates, was honor¬ 
ably brought back from Flodden, and could cer¬ 
tainly never have been displayed on a more mem¬ 
orable field. No event in Scottish history ever 
took a more lasting hold on the public mind than 
the “woeful fight” of Flodden; and even now the 
songs and traditions which are current on the 
Border recall the memory of a contest unsullied 
by disgrace, though terminating in disaster and 
defeat.— Harper’s Magazine. 

Page 307. —The Flowers of the Forest.— 
The “ Flowers of the Forest ” are the young 
men of the districts of Selkirkshire and Peebles¬ 
shire, anciently known as “ the Forest.” The 
song is founded by the author upon an older 
composition of the same name, deploring the 
loss of the Scotch at Flodden Field, of which 
all has been lost except two or three lines.— 
Illustrated Book of Scottish Song. 

• Page 308. — Ivry. — Henry IV., on his ac¬ 
cession to the French throne, was opposed by 
a large part of his subjects under the Duke of 
Mayenne, with the assistance of Spain and 
Savoy, and from the union of these several 
nations their army was called the “Army of the 
League.” In March, 1590, he gained a decisive 
victory over that party at Ivry, a small town in 
France. Before the battle he said to his troops, 
“ My children, if you lose sight of your colors, 
rally to my white plume; you will always find it 
in the path to honor and glory.” His conduct was 
answerable to his promise. Nothing could resist 
his impetuous valor, and the Leaguers underwent 
a total and bloody defeat. In the midst of the 
rout Henry followed, crying, “ Save the French!” 
and his clemency added a number of the enemy 
to his own army. 

Page 812 .— Naseby. —The battle of Naseby was 
fought June 14, 1645, between the royal forces, 
commanded by Charles I., and the Parliamentary 




NOTES EXPLANATORY AND CORROBORATIVE. 


793 


party, nicknamed “ Roundheads,” under Lord 
Fairfax. The forces on both sides were about 
equal, Fairfax having rather the choice of posi¬ 
tion. At first, Prince Rupert, who commanded 
the right wing of the royal army, made such an 
impetuous attack upon the left wing of the Parlia¬ 
mentarians that it was broken and put to flight, 
and Ireton, its commander, wounded and taken 
prisoner; but finally Cromwell, who commanded 
the right wing of Fairfax’s army, routed the left 
wing of the opposing army, and came to the re¬ 
lief of the Parliamentary centre, commanded by 
Fairfax and Skippon, when the royal army was 
defeated, and Charles fled from the bloody field, 
leaving 800 killed, 4500 prisoners, besides his ar¬ 
tillery, ammunition, and several thousand stand 
of arms. The battle virtually decided the war. 

Page S14 .— When the Assault was Intended 
to the City. — This sonnet, the first of those 
which refer to English public affairs, was written 
in November, 1642, and probably on Saturday, the 
12th of that month. The Civil War had then be¬ 
gun, and Milton, already known as a vehement 
anti-Episcopal pamphleteer and Parliamentarian, 
was living, with two young nephews whom he was 
educating, in his house in Aldersgate street, a 
surburban thoroughfare just beyond one of the 
city gates of London. After some of the first 
actions of the war, including the indecisive bat¬ 
tle of Edgehill (Oct. 23), the king’s army, advan¬ 
cing out of the Midlands, with the king and Prince 
Rupert present in it, had come as near to London 
as Hounslow and Brentford, and was threatening 
a further march to crush the Londoners and the 
Parliament at once. They were at their nearest 
on Saturday, the 12th of November; and all that 
day and the next there was immense excitement 
in London in expectation of an assault—chains 
put up across streets, houses barred, etc. It 
was not till the evening of the 13th that the 
citizens were reassured by the retreat of the 
king’s army, which had been checked from a 
closer advance by a rapid march-out of the 
trained bands under Essex and Skippon. Mil- 
ton, we are to fancy, had shared the common 
alarm. His was one of the houses which, if the 
Cavaliers had been let loose, it would have given 
them particular pleasure to sack. Knowing this, 
the only precaution he takes is, half in jest, and 
yet perhaps with some anxiety, to write a son¬ 
net addressed to the imaginary Royalist captain, 
colonel, or knight who may command the Alders¬ 
gate street sacking-party. “On his (lore when ye 
citty expected, an assault ” is the original heading 
of the sonnet in the copy of it, by an amanuensis, 
among the Cambridge MSS., as if the sonnet had 
actually been pasted or nailed up on the outside 
of Milton’s door. This title was afterward de¬ 


leted by Milton himself, and the other title sub¬ 
stituted in his own hand; but the sonnet appeared 
without any title at all in the editions of 1645 and 
1673.— Milton, Masson’s edition. 

Page SI4 .— On the Late Massacre in Pied¬ 
mont.— This, the most powerful of Milton's son¬ 
nets, was written in 1655, and refers to the perse¬ 
cutions instituted, in the early part of that year, 
by Charles Emmanuel II., Duke of Savoy and 
Prince of Piedmont, against his Protestant sub¬ 
jects of the valleys of the Cottian Alps. This 
Protestant community, half French and half 
Italian, and known as the Waldenses or Vaudois, 
were believed to have kept up the tradition of a 
primitive Christianity from the time of the apos¬ 
tles. There had been various persecutions of 
them since the Reformation, but that of 1655 
surpassed all. By an edict of the duke they were 
required to part with their property and leave 
their habitations within twenty days, or else to 
become Roman Catholics. On their resistance, 
forces were sent into their valleys, and the most 
dreadful atrocities followed. Many were butch¬ 
ered, others were taken away in chains, and hun¬ 
dreds of families were driven for refuge to the 
mountains covered with snow, to live there miser¬ 
ably or perish with cold and hunger. Among the 
Protestant nations of Europe, and especially in 
England, the indignation was immediate and vio¬ 
lent. Cromwell, who was then Protector, took up 
the matter with his whole strength. He caused 
Latin letters, couched in the strongest terms, to be 
immediately sent, not only to the offending Duke 
of Savoy, but also to the chief princes and pow¬ 
ers of Europe. These letters were drawn up by 
Milton, and may be read among his Letters of 
State. An ambassador was also sent to collect in¬ 
formation : a Fast Day was appointed; a sub¬ 
scription of £40,000 was raised for the sufferers; 
and altogether Cromwell’s remonstrances were 
such that, backed as they would have been, if 
necessary, by armed force, the cruel edict was 
withdrawn, and a convention made with the Vau¬ 
dois, allowing them the exercise of their worship. 
Milton’s sonnet is his private and more tremen¬ 
dous expression in verse of the feeling he expressed 
publicly, in Cromwell’s name, in his Latin State 
Letters.— Milton, Masson’s edition. 

Page 314 .— The Execution of Montrose.— 
James Graham, Marquis of Montrose, was born 
at Edinburgh in 1612. Having finished his stud¬ 
ies in France, after his return to Scotland ho 
served for a time in the Presbyterian army, but 
subsequently went over to the royalists. He was 
appointed by Charles I., in 1644, Marquis of 
Montrose and commander-in-chief of the Scot¬ 
tish forces. He signally defeated the Covenanters 
at Tippermuir in 1644, also at Inverlochy and at 








794 


NOTES EXPLANATORY AND CORROBORATIVE. 


Kilsyth in 1645; but his army was surprised and 
totally defeated by General Leslie at Philiphaugh 
in September, 1645. Montrose soon after went to 
Germany, where he was received with great dis¬ 
tinction by the Austrian emperor and made a 
marshal of the Empire. Having collected a small 
but ill-organized force, he returned to Scotland in 
1650, but was soon after defeated and taken pris¬ 
oner. He was executed, without a trial, at Edin¬ 
burgh, in May, 1650.— Thomas’s Biographical Dic¬ 
tionary. 

Page 317 .— The Bonnets of Bonnie Dundee.— 
Dundee, enraged at his enemies, and still more at 
his friends, resolved to retire to the Highlands, 
and to make preparations for civil war, but with 
secrecy, for he had been ordered by James to 
make no public insurrection until assistance 
should be sent him from Ireland. 

Whilst Dundee was in this temper, information 
was brought him—whether true or false is uncer¬ 
tain—that some of the Covenanters had associated 
themselves to assassinate him, in revenge for his 
former severities against their party. He flew to 
the Convention and demanded justice. The Duke 
of Hamilton, who wished to get rid of a trouble¬ 
some adversary, treated his complaint with neg¬ 
lect, and, in order to sting him in the tenderest 
part, reflected upon that courage which could be 
alarmed by imaginary dangers. Dundee left the 
house in a rage, mounted his horse, and with a 
troop of fifty horsemen, who had deserted to him 
from his regiment in England, galloped through 
the city. Being asked by one of his friends, who 
stopped him, “ Where he was going ?” he waved 
his hat, and is reported to have answered, 
“Wherever the spirit of Montrose shall direct 
me.” In passing under the walls of the Castle, 
he stopped, scrambled up the precipice at a place 
difficult and dangerous, and held a conference 
with the Duke of Gordon at a postern-gate, the 
marks of which are still to be seen, though the 
gate itself is built up. Hoping, in vain, to infuse 
the vigor of his own spirit into the duke, he 
pressed him to retire with him into the High¬ 
lands, raise his vassals there, who were numerous, 
brave, and faithful, and leave the command of the 
Castle to Winram, the lieutenant-governor, an 
officer on whom Dundee could rely. The duke 
concealed his timidity under the excuse of a sol¬ 
dier. “A soldier,” said he, “cannot in honor 
quit the post that is assigned him.” The novelty 
of the sight drew numbers to the foot of the rock 
upon which the conference was held. These num¬ 
bers every minute increased, and, in the end, were 
mistaken for Dundee’s adherents. The Conven¬ 
tion was then sitting; news was carried thither 
that Dundee was at the gates with an. army, and 
had prevailed upon the governor of the Castle to 








fire upon the town. The Duke of Hamilton, 
whose intelligence was better, had the presence 
of mind, by improving the moment of agitation, 
to overwhelm the one party, and provoke the 
other, by their fears. He ordered the doors of 
the house to be shut, and the keys to be laid on 
the table before him. He cried out, “ That there 
was danger within as well as without doors; that 
traitors must be held in confinement until the 
present danger was over; but that the friends of 
liberty had nothing to fear, for that thousands 
were ready to start up in their defence at the 
stamp of his foot.” He ordered the drums to be 
beat and the trumpets to sound through the city. 
In an instant vast swarms of those who had been 
brought into town by him and Sir John Dairy tu¬ 
ple from the western counties, and who had been 
hitherto hid in garrets and cellars, showed them¬ 
selves in the streets; not, indeed, in the proper 
habiliments of war, but in arms, and with looks 
fierce and sullen, as if they felt disdain at their 
former concealment. This unexpected sight in¬ 
creased the noise and tumult of the town, which 
grew loudest in the square adjoining the house 
where the members were confined, and appeared 
still louder to those who were within, because they 
were ignorant of the cause from which the tumult 
arose, and caught contagion from the anxious 
looks of each other. After some hours the doors 
were thrown open, and the Whig members, as 
they went out, were received with acclamations, 
and those of the opposite party with the threats 
and curses of a prepared populace. Terrified by 
the prospect of future alarms, many of the ad¬ 
herents of James quitted the Convention and 
retired to the country; most of them changed 
sides; only a very few of the most resolute con¬ 
tinued their attendance.— Dalrymple’s Memoirs. 


Page 318 .— The Burial March of Dcndee.— 
John Graham, Viscount Dundee, was born in 1643. 
He served in the French army from 1668 to 1672, 
and next entered the Dutch service as cornet in 
the Prince of Orange’s horse-guards, and is re¬ 
ported to have saved the life of the prince at the 
battle of Seneffe in 1674. Returning to Scotland, 
he took a prominent part in the persecution of the 
Covenanters and in the attempt to force Episco¬ 
pacy on the people of that country. In 16S8, on 
the eve of the Revolution, he was raised to the 
peerage by James II. as Viscount Dundee and 
Lord Graham of Claverhouse. When James was 
driven from the throne, Dundee remained faith* 
ful to the fallen monarch. He was joined by the 
Jacobite Highland clans and by auxiliaries from 
Ireland, and raised the standard of rebellion 
against the government of William and Mary. 
After various movements in the North, he advanced 
upon Blair in Athol, and General Mackay, com- 










NOTES EXPLANATORY AND CORROBORATIVE. 


795 


mantling the government forces, hastened to meet 
him. The two armies confronted each other at 
the Pass of Killiecrankie, July 27,1G89. Mackay’s 
force was about four thousand men; Dundee’s, 
twenty-five hundred foot, with one troop of horse. 
A few minutes decided the contest. After both 
armies had exchanged fire, the Highlanders rush¬ 
ed on with their swords, and the enemy instantly 
scattered and gave way. Maekay lost by death 
and capture two thousand five hundred men; the 
victors, nine hundred. Dundee fell by a musket- 
shot while waving on one of his battalions to 
advance. He was carried off the field to Urrard 
House, or Blair Castle, and there expired. 

Pa<je 320. —Fontenot. —The battle of Fontenoy 
was fought between the French, under Marshal 
Saxe, and the English, Dutch, and Austrians, 
under the Duke of Cumberland, May 11, 1745. 
The fortunes of war were at first in favor of the 
French, who were posted on a hill behind Fonte¬ 
noy, when Cumberland, heading a column of four¬ 
teen thousand British and Hanoverian infantry, 
with fixed bayonets, plunged down the ravine 
separating the two armies, and gained the hill, 
carrying everything before him. The day was 
apparently lost to the French, and Marshal Saxe 
in vain urged the king to fly. At this critical 
moment the Irish brigade charged on the English 
flank, and changed the apparent defeat into a de¬ 
cisive victory. 

Page 322 .— Lochiel’s Warning. —Lochiel, the 
chief of the warlike clan of the Camerons, and 
descended from ancestors distinguished in their 
narrow sphere for great personal prowess, was a 
man worthy of a better cause and fate than that in 
which he embarked—the enterprise of the Stuarts in 
1745. His memory is still fondly cherished among 
the Highlanders by the appellation of the “ gentle 
Lochiel,” for he was famed for his social virtues 
as much as his martial and magnanimous (though 
mistaken) loyalty. His influence was so import¬ 
ant among the Highland chiefs, that it depended 
on his joining with his clan whether the standard 
of Charles should be raised or not in 1745. Lochiel 
was himself too wise a man to be blind to the 
consequences of so hopeless an enterprise, but his 
sensibility to the point of honor overruled his 
wisdom. Lochiel, with many arguments, but in 
vain, pressed the Pretender to return to France 
and reserve himself and his friends for a more 
favorable occasion, as he had come, by his own 
acknowledgment, without arms, or money, or ad¬ 
herents ; or, at all events, to remain concealed till 
his friends should meet and deliberate what was 
best to be done. Charles, whose mind was wound 
up to the utmost impatience, paid no regard to 
his proposal, but answered that he was determined 
to put all to the hazard. “In a few days,” said 


he, “ I will erect the royal standard, and will pro¬ 
claim to the people of Great Britain that Charles 
Stuart is come over to claim the crown of his an¬ 
cestors, and to win it or perish in the attempt. 
Lochiel, who my father has often told me was our 
firmest friend, may stay at home and learn from 
the newspapers the fate of his prince.” “No,” 
said Lochiel, “ I will share the fate of my prince, 
and so shall every man over whom nature or for¬ 
tune hath given me any power.”— Campbell’s 
Poems, note. 

Page 326. — The Tears of Scotland. —Written 
on the barbarities committed in the Highlands by 
the English forces under the command of the Duke 
of Cumberland after the battle of Culloden, 1746. 
It is said that Smollett originally finished the 
poem in six stanzas, when some one representing 
that such a diatribe against government might 
injure his prospects, he sat down and added the 
still more pointed invective of the seventh stanza. 
— Chambers’s Cyclopaedia of English Literature. 

Page 327. —Louis XV.—The story of the king’s 
meeting a coffin was in everybody’s mouth. No 
one here had heard it. So Jerome told that the 
king was fond of asking questions of strangers, 
and particularly about disease, death, and church¬ 
yards, because he thought his gay attendants did 
not like to hear of such things. One day he was 
hunting in the forest of Senard when he met a 
man on horseback carrying a coffin. “Where aro 
you carrying that coffin ?” asked the king. “ To 
the village yonder.” “ Is it for a man or a 
woman?” “For a man.” “What did he die 
of?” “ Of hunger.” The king clapped spurs to 
his horse and rode away.— The Peasant and the 
Prince, by Harriet Martineau. 

Page 328. —Paul Revere’s Ride. —Paul Revere 
was one of the four engravers in Amei'ica at the 
time of the Revolution, and one of the most active 
participants in the political movements imme¬ 
diately preceding the breaking out of the war. 
He was prominent in the destruction of the tea in 
Boston harbor, and was sent to Philadelphia and 
New York to convey the news of that event; and 
again visited those cities to enlist their sympathy 
and co-operation when the decree for closing the 
port of Boston was passed. On the night of April 
18th, 1775, Dr. Joseph Warren sent him and Wil¬ 
liam Dawes to Lexington and Concord to give 
notice of General Gage’s intended expedition to 
destroy the Provincial military stores and can¬ 
non at Concord. Dawes went by way of Roxbor* 
ough to Lexington, while Revere went through 
Charlestown. After the latter had crossed the 
Charles River orders were sent from the British 
head-quarters to arrest him, but, eluding the Brit¬ 
ish sentinels, he rowed across the Charles River 








796 


NOTES EXPLANATORY AND CORROBORATIVE. 


live minutes before the order was received, and 
galloped through the country to Lexington, arous¬ 
ing the inhabitants as he went along. The two 
messengers passed through Lexington a little 
after midnight, and aroused Hancock and Adams, 
who were lodging at the house of the Rev. Jonas 
Clark, and then hurried on to Concord. They 
were afterward taken prisoners, and brought as 
far as Lexington, but were released in the con¬ 
fusion of the battle. 

Page 330. — Song of Marion’s Men. —The ex¬ 
ploits of General Francis Marion, the famous 
partisan warrior of South Carolina, form an in¬ 
teresting chapter in the annals of the American 
Revolution. The British troops were so harassed 
by the irregular and successful warfare which he 
kept up at the head of a few daring followers, 
that they sent an officer to remonstrate with him 
for not coming into the open field and fighting 
“ like a gentleman and a Christian.”— Notes to 
Bryant’s Poems. 

Page 339. — Hoiienlinden. —During his tour in 
Germany, Campbell saw a battle from a convent 
near Ratisbon, and he saw the field of Ingolstadt 
after a battle. From such experiences he derived 
his poem on the battle in which the French de¬ 
feated the Austrians at Hohenlinden on the 3d 
of December, 1800. Ten thousand Austrians were 
killed or wounded, and as many were made pris¬ 
oners.— Morley’s Shorter English Poems. 

Page 340. — Battle of the Baltic. —In De¬ 
cember, 1800, a maritime alliance was formed be¬ 
tween Russia, Prussia, Denmark, and Sweden in 
regard to the rights of neutral nations in war. 
For the purpose of breaking up this confederacy 
a fleet of 52 sail was sent in March, 1801, to the 
Baltic under Sir Hyde Parker, Nelson consenting 
to act as second in command. The squadron 
passed the Sound on the 30th, and entered the 
harbor of Copenhagen. To Nelson, at the head 
of 12 ships of the line and smaller vessels, mak¬ 
ing 36 in all, was assigned the attack; against 
him were opposed 18 vessels mounting 628 guns, 
moored in a line a mile in length and flanked by 
two batteries. The action began about 10 a. m., 
April 2, and lasted five hours. About 1 o’clock 
Sir Hyde Parker made the signal for discontinu¬ 
ing. Nelson ordered it to be acknowledged, but, 
putting the glass to his blind eye, exclaimed, “I 
really don’t see the signal. Keep mine for closer 
battle still flying. That’s the way I answer such 
signals. Nail mine to the mast.” By 2 o’clock, 
the Danish fleet being almost entirely taken or 
destroyed, he wrote to the crown prince the fol¬ 
lowing note: “Vice-Admiral Nelson has been 
commanded to spare Denmark when she no 
longer resists. The line of defence which cov¬ 


ered her shores has struck to the British flag; 
but if the firing is continued on the part of Den¬ 
mark, he must set on fire all the prizes he has 
taken, without having the power of saving the 
men w r ho have so nobly defended them. The 
brave Danes are the brothers, and should never 
be the enemies, of the English.” An armistice of 
fourteen weeks was agreed to, and in the mean 
time the accession of Alexander to the throne of 
Russia broke up the confederacy and left matters 
on their old footing. For this battle, which Nel¬ 
son said was the most terrible of all in which he 
had ever been engaged, he was raised to the rank 
of viscount.— Appleton’ s Cyclopaedia. 

Page 344 • — CasabiancA. — Young Casabianca, 
a boy about thirteen years old, son of the admiral 
of the Orient, remained at his post (in the battle 
of the Nile) after the ship had taken fire and all 
the guns had been abandoned, and perished in 
the explosion of the vessel when the flames had 
reached the powder.— He mans’s Poems. 

Page 344- — The Angels of Buena Vista. —At 
the terrible fight of Buena Vista, Mexican women 
were seen hovering near the field of death for the 
purpose of giving aid and succor to the wounded. 
One poor woman was found surrounded by the 
maimed and suffering of both armies, minister¬ 
ing to the wants of Americans as well as Mex¬ 
icans with impartial tenderness. 

Page 346 .— Marco Bozzaris. —Marco Bozzaris 
was one of the bravest and best of the modern 
Greek chieftains. He fell in a night-attack upon 
the Turkish camp at Laspi, the site of the ancient 
Plataea, August 20, 1823, and expired in the mo¬ 
ment of victory.— Halleck’s Poems. 

Page 347 .— On the Extinction of the Vene¬ 
tian Republic. — During the revolutionary 
movements of 1848, Venice in March revolted 
against the Austrian rule and proclaimed the 
restoration of the republic; but after enduring 
a long siege and a terrible bombardment, she ca¬ 
pitulated on August 23, 1S49, and on the 30th 
Radetzky entered the city, which was not released 
from the state of siege until May 1, 1854.— Apple- 
ton’s Cyclopaedia. 

Page 347 .— The Relief of Lucknow. —“On 
every side death stared us iu the face; no human 
skill could avert it any longer. We were resolved 
rather to die than to yield, and were fully per¬ 
suaded that in twenty-four hours all would be 
over. The engineers had said so, and all knew 
the worst. We women strove to encourage each 
other, and to perform the lig))t duties which had 
been assigned to us, such as conveying orders to 
the batteries and supplying the men with pro¬ 
visions, especially cups of coffee, which wc pre- 




797 


NOTES EXPLANATORY AND CORROBORATIVE. 


pared day and night. I had gone out to try to 
make myself useful, in company with Jessie Brown, 
the wife of a corporal in my husband’s regiment. 
Poor Jessie had been in a state of restless excite¬ 
ment all through the siege, and had fallen away 
visibly within the last few days. A constant fever 
consumed her, and her mind wandered occasion- 
ally, especially that day, when the recollections 
of home seemed powerfully present to her. 

“ At last, overcome with fatigue, she lay down 
on the ground, wrapped up in her plaid. I sat 
beside her, promising to awaken her when, as she 
said, ‘her father should return from the plough¬ 
ing.’ She fell at length into a profound slumber, 
motionless, and apparently breathless, her head 
resting in my lap. I myself could no longer 
resist the inclination to sleep, in spite of the 
continual roar of the cannon. Suddenly I was j 
aroused by a wild, unearthly scream close to my 
ear; my companion stood upright beside me, her 
arms raised and her head bent forward in the 
attitude of listening. A look of intense delight 
broke over her countenance; she clasped my 
hand, drew me toward her and exclaimed, 
‘Dinna ye hear it? dinna ye hear it? Ay, I’m 
no dreamin’; it’s the slogan o’ the Highlanders! 
IVe’re saved! we’re saved!’ Then, flinging her¬ 
self on her knees, she thanked God with passion¬ 
ate fervor. I felt utter bewildered; my English 
ears heard only the roar of artillery, and I 
thought my poor Jessie was still raving; but 
she darted to the batteries, and I heard her cry 
incessantly to the men, ‘Courage! courage! hark 
to the slogan—to the Macgregor, the grandest of 
them a’. Here’s help at last!’ 

“ To describe the effect of these words upon the 
soldiers would be impossible. For a moment they 
ceased firing, and every soul listened in intense 
anxiety. Gradually, however, there arose a mur¬ 
mur of bitter disappointment, and the wailing of 
the women who had flocked to the spot burst out 
anew as the colonel shook his head. Our dull 
Lowland ears heard nothing but the rattle of the 
musketry. A few moments more of this death¬ 
like suspense, of this agonizing hope, and Jessie, 
who had again sunk on the ground, sprang to her 
feet and cried in a voice so clear and piercing that 
it was heard along the whole line, ‘Will ye no 
believe it noo! The slogan has ceased indeed, 
but the Campbells are cornin’! D'ye hear? d’ye 
hear ?’ At this moment we seemed indeed to 
hear the voice of God in the distance, when 
the pibroch of the Highlanders brought us tid¬ 
ings of deliverance, for now there was no longer 
any doubt of the fact. 

“ That shrill, penetrating, ceaseless sound, 
which rose above all other sounds, could come 
neither from the advance of the enemy nor from 
the work of the sappers. No; it was indeed the | 


blast of the Scottish bagpipes, now shrill and 
harsh, as threatening vengeance on the foe, then 
in softer tones, seeming to promise succor to their 
friends in need. Never surely was there such a 
scene as that which followed. Not a heart in the 
residency of Lucknow but bowed itself before 
God. All by one simultaneous impulse fell upon 
their knees, and nothing was heard but bursting 
sobs and the murmured voice of prayer. Then 
all arose, and there rang out from a thousand lips 
a great shout of joy which resounded far and 
wide and lent new vigor to that blessed pibroch. 
To our cheer of ‘ God save the queen !’ they replied 
by the well-known strain that moves every Scot 
to tears: ‘ Should auld acquaintance be forgot,’ 
etc. After this nothing else made any impression 
on me. I scarcely remembered what followed. 
Jessie was presented to the general on his entrance 
into the fort, and at the officers’ banquet her health 
was drunk by all present, while the pipers marched 
round the table playing once more the familiar air 
of ‘Auld lang syne .’”—Letter to the London Time s. 

Page 348 .— The Charge of the Light Brig¬ 
ade. —The battle of Balaklava was fought Octo¬ 
ber, 1854, between the allied English, French, and 
Turkish forces, under Lord Raglan, Omar Pacha, 
and Marshal St. Arnaud, and the Russian armies; 
the fighting being principally by the English and 
Russians. The brilliant but useless charge of the 
Light Brigade has made this battle famous in 
song and story, but it really did little toward 
deciding the result. 

Page 349 .— All Quiet Along the Potomac.— 
In the fall of 1861 “ All Quiet along the Potomac ” 
was the familiar heading of all war-despatches. 
So when this poem appeared in the columns of 
Harper’s Weekly, Nov. 30th, it was quickly re¬ 
published in almost every journal in the land. 
As it bore only the initials E. B., the poem soon 
became a nameless waif, and was attributed to 
various pens. 

The London Times copied it as having been 
written by a Confederate soldier and found in his 
pocket after death. (It seems to have been a dan¬ 
gerous thing to copy it, as it has so often been 
found in dead men’s pockets.) An American 
paper quoted it, saying that it was written by 
a private soldier in the United States service, and 
sent home to his wife. This statement was met 
by another, asserting that it was written by Fitz- 
James O'Brien. As the soul of that true poet and 
gallant soldier had gone out through a ragged 
battle-rift won at Ball’s Bluff - , this was uncontra¬ 
dicted until an editorial paragraph appeared in 
Harper’s Weekly, July 4th, 1863, saying it had 
been written for that paper by a lady contributor. 

It appeared in a volume of War-Poetry of the 












798 


NOTES EXPLANATORY AND CORROBORATIVE. 


South, edited by Wm. Gilmore Sims, as a South¬ 
ern production, and was set to music by a Rich¬ 
mond music-publisher in 1864, with “Words by 
Lamar Fontaine’’ on its title-page. A soldier- 
cousin, who went with Sherman to the sea, found 
in a deserted printing-office at Fayetteville a paper 
containing a two-column article on the poem, with 
all the circumstances under which “ Lamar Fon¬ 
taine composed it while on picket-duty.” 

It appeared in the earlier editions of Bryant’s 
Library of Poetry and Song over Mrs. Howland’s 
name, which was afterward corrected by Mr. 
Bryant. 

I have been at some pains to gather up these 
dates and names as one of the curiosities of news¬ 
paper-waif life. To those who know me, my sim¬ 
ple assertion that I wrote the poem is sufficient, 
but to set right any who may care to know, I refer 
to the columns of the old ledger at Harper’s, on 
whose pages I saw but the other day the business 
form of acceptance of, and payment for, “ The 
Picket-Guard,” among other contributions. 

Fortunately, I have two credible witnesses to 
the time and circumstances of its writing. A 
lovely lady sitting opposite me at the boarding¬ 
house table looked up from her morning paper at 
breakfast-time to say, “ All quiet along the Po¬ 
tomac, as usual,” and I, taking up the next line, 
answered back, “ Except a poor picket shot.” 
After breakfast it still haunted me, and with my 
paper across the end of my sewing-machine I 
wrote the whole poem before noon, making but 
one change in copying it, reading it aloud to ask 
a boy’s judgment in reference to two different end¬ 
ings, and adopting the one he chose. Nothing 
was ever more vivid or real to me than the pic¬ 
tures I had conjured up of the picket’s lonely 
walk and swift summons, or the waiting wife and 
children. A short sojourn in Washington had 
made me quite familiar with the routine of war¬ 
time and soldier-life. The popularity of the poem 
was perhaps due more to the pathos of the subject 
than to any inherent quality .—Note to Collected 
Edition of Mrs. Beers’ Poems. 

Page 350 .— Barbara Frietchie. —The follow¬ 
ing extract from a letter by John G. Whittier will 
undoubtedly set at rest all speculations—so far as 
the poet is concerned—in regard to the origin of 
the poem: 

Oak Knoll, Danvers, Mass., 

10 Mo., 19, ’80. 

My Dear Friend: I had a portrait of the good 
Lady Barbara from the saintly hand of Dorothy 
Dix, whose life is spent in works of love and duty, 
and a cane made of wood from Barbara’s cottage, 
sent me by Dr. Steiner of the Maryland Senate. 

Whether she did all that my poem ascribes to 
her or not, she was a brave and true woman. 


I followed the account given me in a private 
letter and in the papers of the time. I am very 
truly thy friend, John G. Whittier. 

Nellie Blessing Eyster. 

Page 353. —The Star - Spangled Banner.— 

! This song was composed under the following 
circumstances: A gentleman had left Baltimore 
j with a flag of truce for the purpose of getting 
released from the British fleet a friend of his, who 
had been captured at Marlborough. He went as 
far as the mouth of the Patuxent, and was not 
permitted to return, lest the intended attack on 
Baltimore should be disclosed. He was therefore 
brought up the bay to the mouth of the Patapsco, 
where the flag-vessel was kept under the guns of 
a frigate; and he was compelled to witness the 
bombardment of Fort McHenry, which the admi¬ 
ral had boasted he would carry in a few hours, 
and that the city must fall. He watched the flag 
at the fort through the whole day, with anxiety 
that can be better felt than described, until the 
night prevented him from seeing it. In the night 
he watched the bomb-shells, and at early dawn his 
eye was again greeted by the flag of his country. 
— McCarty’s National Songs. 

Page 355. —Rule, Britannia. —This celebrated 
song was first sung in the “Masque of Alfred,” 
a performance which was the joint production of 
James Thomson and David Mallet. The masque 
was written by the command of the Prince of 
Wales, father of George III., for his entertain¬ 
ment of the Court, and was first performed at 
Clifden in 1740, on the birthday of II. R. II. the 
Princess of Wales.— Bellew’s Poets’ Corner. 

Page 355. —God Save the King. —The most 
popular song in the world is our “God save the 
Queen.” The history of its composition is very 
uncertain. Perhaps the best-sustained theory is 
that it was originally a Jacobite song, written 
during the rebellion of 1715 by Henry Carey, and 
partly composed by him. It rushed into popu¬ 
larity at the English theatres in 1745, and Carey 
himself sang it publicly in 1740, having changed 
“James ” to “ George.” The air is simple, and yet 
stately. It is capable of calling forth the talents 
of the finest vocal performers, and yet is admira¬ 
bly adapted for a chorus, in which the humblest 
pretender to music may join. The words are not 
elegant, but they are very expressive; and the 
homeliness of some of the lines may have con¬ 
tributed to its universality.— Knight’s Half Hours 
with the Best Authors. 

Page 359. — Pibroch of Donuil Dhu. —This is 
a very ancient pibroch belonging to Clan Mac¬ 
Donald, and supposed to refer to the expedition of 
Donald Balloch, who, in 1431, launched from the 
Isles with a considerable force, invaded Lochaber, 






NOTES EXPLANATORY AND CORROBORATIVE. 


799 


and at Inverlochy defeated and put to flight the 
Eavls of Mar and Caithness, though at the head 
of an army superior to his own.— Scott’s Poems, 
Abbotsford ed. 

Page 362. —The Harp that Once through 
Tara s Halls. —Tara, orTarah, was from the ear¬ 
liest times the capital of Ireland. Each province 
appears to have had its own king, but he was sub¬ 
ject to the monarch who ruled in person over the 
central district of Meath and resided at Tarah. 
There is now preserved in the old museum of 
Trinity College, at Dublin, an old harp which is 
said to have been owned by one of these old mon¬ 
arch. 5 ; of Ireland at Tara. It is made of willow and 
oak, and ornamented with brass and silver and va¬ 
rious carvings. Only one of its twenty-eight strings 
remains. The following history is told of it: It 
was at one time the property of Brian Borumha 
or Brien Boroimhe, monarch of Ireland, about 
the year a. d. 1000. After his death, at the bat¬ 
tle of Clontarf, in 1014, it was presented by his 
son to the pope. After remaining in the Vatican 
for several centuries it was given by Pope Leo X. 
to Henry VIII. of England, who transmitted it 
to the first earl of Clanricarde. It passed from the 
possession of one family to that of another, until 
at the end of the last century the marquis of Co- 
nyngham gave it to the museum of Trinity Col¬ 
lege, where it now can be seen.— Literary World, 
Boston. 

Page 363. —An Ode.— lx Imitation of Alcaeus. 
—“Written in 1781, in a paroxysm of indigna¬ 
tion against the American War, the slave trade, 
and the general decline of British liberty.”— 
English Odes by Edmund Gosse. 

Page 369. —Sir Patrick Spens. —The name of 
Sir Patrick Spens is not mentioned in history, 
but I am able to state that tradition has preserved 
it. In the little island of Papa Stronsay, one of 
the Orcadian group, lying over against Norway, 
there is a large grave, or tumulus, which has been 
known to the inhabitants, from time immemorial, 
as “the grave of Sir Patrick Spens.” . . . The 
people know nothing beyond the traditional ap¬ 
pellation of the spot, and they have no legend to 
tell. Spens is a Scottish, not a Scandinavian 
name. Is it, then, a forced conjecture that the 
shipwreck took place off the iron-bound coast of 
the northern islands, which did not then belong 
to the crown of Scotland ?— Aytoun ( Noted Names 
of Fiction). 

Page 373. — Skipper Ireson’s Bide. —On Sun¬ 
day, the 30th of October, the schooner Betty, com¬ 
manded by Skipper Benjamin Ireson, arrived from 
the Grand Banks. Shortly after their arrival, the 
crew reported that at midnight on the previous 
Friday, when off Cape Cod light-house, they 


passed the schooner Active, of Portland, which 
was in a sinking condition, and that the skipper 
had refused to render any assistance to the unfor¬ 
tunate men on board the wreck. The excitement 
! and indignation of the people upon the reception 
of this news can be better imagined than de¬ 
scribed. Two vessels, manned by willing volun¬ 
teers, were immediately dispatched to the scene 
of disaster, with the hope of their arrival in time 
to save the shipwrecked sailors. But their mis¬ 
sion was a failure, and they returned with no 
tidings of the wreck. The resentment of the 
people was still further provoked when, on the 
following day, the sloop Swallow arrived, having 
on board Captain Gibbons, the master of the ill- 
fated schooner. He corroborated the story told 
I by the crew of the Betty, and stated that the 
Active sprung a leak at about eleven o’clock on 
Friday night. An hour later the Betty was 
spoken, “but, contrary to the principles of hu¬ 
manity,” she sailed away without giving any 
assistance. On Saturday, Captain Gibbons and 
three of the passengers were taken off the wreck 
by Mr. Hardy, of Truro, in a whale-boat. Four 
other persons were left on the week, but the 
storm increased so rapidly that it was found im¬ 
possible to return to their rescue. Captain Gib¬ 
bons was placed on board the revenue cutter Good 
Intent, and afterward went on board the sloop 
Swallow, in which he came to Marblehead. 

This statement by one who had so narrowly 
escaped a watery grave made a deep impression 
upon the fishermen, and they determined to dem¬ 
onstrate their disapproval of Skipper Ireson’s 
conduct by a signal act of vengeance. Accord- 
I inglv, on a bright moonlight night, the unfortu¬ 
nate skipper was suddenly seized by several pow¬ 
erful men and securely bound. He was then 
placed in a dory, and, besmeared from head to 
feet with tar and feathers, was dragged through 
the town, escorted by a multitude of men and 
boys. When opposite the locality now known as 
Workhouse Rocks, the bottom of the dory came 
out, and the prisoner finished the remainder of 
his ride to Salem in a cart. The authorities of 
that city forbade the entrance of the strange pro¬ 
cession, and the crowd returned to Marblehead. 

Throughout the entire proceeding Mr. Ireson 
maintained a dignified silence, and when, on 
arriving at his own home, be was released from 
custody, his only remark was, “ I thank you for 
my ride, gentlemen, but you will live to regret it.” 

His words were prophetic. When too late to 
make reparation for the wrong they had com¬ 
mitted, the impulsive fishermen realized that they 
had perpetrated an act of the greatest injustice 
upon an innocent man. 

At this late day, when for years his memory 











800 


NOTES EXPLANATORY AND CORROBORATIVE. 


has been defamed throughout the land, and the 
fair name of the women of Marblehead has been 
sullied by the fictitious story of one of our best 
New England poets, it is but just that the true 
history of the affair should be written. Skipper 
Ireson was not more to blame than his crew, and, 
it is believed, not at all. When the wreck was 
spoken and the cry of distress was heard, a ter¬ 
rific gale was blowing. There was a consultation 
on board the Betty as to the course to be pursued, 
and the crew decided not to endanger their own 
lives for the sake of saving others. Finding that 
they were resolute in their determination, Skipper 
Ireson proposed to lay by the wreck all night, or 
until the storm should abate, and then go to the 
rescue of the unfortunate men. To this they also 
demurred, and insisted upon proceeding on their 
homeward voyage without delay. On their arrival 
in Marblehead, fearing the just indignation of the 
people, they laid the entire blame upon the skip¬ 
per. This version of the affair is generally ac¬ 
cepted as true; and for the credit of the town be 
it said that it is one of the few incidents in its 
entire history that its citizens have any reason to 
regret.— “The History and Traditions of Marble¬ 
head,” by Samuel Roads, Jr. 

Page 374. —How they Brought the Good 
News. —The following is an extract from a private 
note of Robert Browning, dated London, Jan. 23, 
1881: “There is no sort of historical foundation 
for the poem about ‘ Good News to Ghent.’ I 
wrote it under the bulwark of a vessel, off the 
African coast, after I had been at sea long enough 
to appreciate even the fancy of a gallop on the 
back of a certain good horse ‘York,’ then in my 
stable at home. It was written in pencil on the 
fly-leaf of Bartoli’s Simboli, I remember.”— Lit¬ 
erary World, Boston. 

Page 376. — The Wandering Jew'. —The story 
of the “ Wandering Jew” is of considerable an¬ 
tiquity. It had obtained full credit in this part 
of the world before the year 1228, as we learn 
from Matthew Paris; for in that year, it seems, 
there came an Armenian archbishop into England 
to visit the shrines and reliques preserved in our 
churches; who, being entertained at the monas¬ 
tery of St. Albans, was asked several questions 
relating to his country, etc. Among the rest, a 
monk who sat near him inquired “ if he had ever 
seen or heard of the famous person named 
Joseph, that was so much talked of, who w T as 
present at our Lord’s crucifixion and conversed 
with him, and who was still alive, in confirmation 
of the Christian faith.” The archbishop answered 
that the fact was true ; and afterward one of his 
train, who was well known to a servant of the 
abbot’s, interpreting his master’s words, told 
them in French “ that his lord knew the person 
they spoke of very well; that he had dined 


At his table but a little while before he left 
the East; that he had been Pontius Pilate’s por¬ 
ter, by name Cartaphilus, who, when they were 
dragging Jesus out of the door of the judgment- 
hall, struck him with his fist on the back, saying, 

‘ Go faster, Jesus, go faster! why dost thou lin¬ 
ger ?’ Upon which Jesus looked at him with a 
frown and said, ‘ I indeed am going, but thou 
shalt tarry till I come.’ Soon after he was con¬ 
verted, and baptized by the name of Joseph. 
He lives for ever, but at the end of every hun¬ 
dred years falls into an incurable illness, and at 
length into a fit or ecstasy, out of which, when 
he recovers, he returns to the same state of youth 
he was in when Jesus suffered, being then about 
thirty years of age. He remembers all the cir¬ 
cumstances of the death and resurrection of 
Christ, the saints that arose with him, the com¬ 
posing of the apostles’ creed, their preaching and 
dispersion, and is himself a very grave and holy 
person.” This is the substance of Matthew Paris’s 
account, who was himself a monk of St. Albans, 
and was living at the time when the Armenian 
archbishop made the above relation. 

Since his time several impostors have ap¬ 
peared at intervals under the name and charac¬ 
ter of the “ Wandering Jew,” whose several his¬ 
tories may be seen in Calmet’s Dictionary of the 
Bible. See also The Turkish Spy, vol. ii., book 3, 
let. 1. The story that is copied in the following 
ballad is of one who appeared at Hamburg in 
1547, and pretended he had been a Jewish shoe¬ 
maker at the time of Christ’s crucifixion. The 
ballad, however, seems to be of a later date.— 
Percy’s Reliques. 

Page 377 .— The Dream of Eugene Aram.— 
Eugene Aram, the son of a poor gardener, but 
who by the most indefatigable industry and un¬ 
swerving perseverance in the face of the greatest 
difficulties had won for'himself the reputation 
of extensive scholarship, was a schoolmaster in 
Knaresborough. In 1745 he was implicated in 
a robbery committed by Daniel Clark, a shoe¬ 
maker of that place, but was acquitted for want 
of evidence. Nevertheless, he left Knaresborough 
and went to London, while at the same time 
Clark mysteriously disappeared. Nothing was 
known of the matter until February, 1759, nearly 
fourteen years afterward, when a skeleton was 
dug up near Knaresborough which was suspected 
to be that of the shoemaker. At the time of this 
discovery Aram was an usher at an academy in 
Lynn, pursuing his favorite studies of heraldry, 
botany, the Chaldee, Arabic, Welsh, and Irish 
languages, and was just engaged in compiling a 
comparative lexicon of the English,Latin, Greek, 
Hebrew, and Celtic languages, when he was sud¬ 
denly arrested on the charge of murder. At the 








NOTES EXPLANATORY AND CORROBORATIVE. 


801 


trial lie conducted his own defence with wonder¬ 
ful ability and ingenuity, but the evidence of his 
crime was overwhelming, and he was found 
guilty. After his condemnation he confessed his 
guilt and attempted to commit suicide, but was 
discovered before he had bled to death, and ex¬ 
piated his crime on the gallows. 

Page 380. — Inchcape Rock. — An old writer 
mentions a curious tradition which may be worth 
quoting. “ By east the Isle of May,” says he, 
“twelve miles from all land, in the German seas, 
lyes a great hidden rock, called Inchcape, very 
dangerous for navigators, because it is overflowed 
everie tide. It is reported, in old times upon the 
saide rock there was a bell, fixed upon a tree or 
timber, which rang continually, being moved by 
the sea, giving notice to the saylers of the dan¬ 
ger. This bell or clocke was put there and 
maintained by the abbot of Aberbrothok, and 
being taken down by a sea-pirate, a yeare there¬ 
after he perished upon the same rocke, with ship 
and goodes, in the righteous judgment of God.” 
— Stoddart’s Remarks on Scotland. 

Page 381 .— Comnor Hall. — The death of 
Lord Dudley’s deserted wife at this critical junc¬ 
ture, under peculiarly suspicious circumstances, 
gave rise to dark rumors that she had been put 
out of the way to enable him to accept the willing 
hand of a royal bride. Several daj r s before the 
tragedy was perpetrated at Curnnor Hall, it had 
been reported in the court that she was very ill 
and not expected to recover, although at that 
time in perfect health. The Spanish ambassador, 
De Quadra, writes to the Duchess of Parma : 
“ The queen, on her return from hunting, told 
me that Lord ltobert’s wife was dead, or nearly 
so, and begged me to say nothing about it. As¬ 
suredly it is a matter full of shame and infamy. 
Since this was written,” His Excellency adds, “the 
death of Lord Robert’s wife has been given out 
publicly.” The queen said in Italian, “ She had 
broken her neck ; she was found dead at the foot 
of a staircase at Curnnor Hall.” There was cer¬ 
tainly a great lack of feminine feeling in the brief, 
hard terms in which Elizabeth announced the 
tragic fate of the unfortunate lady, from whom she 
had alienated a husband’s love. Lever, one of the 
popular preachers of the day, wrote to Cecil, “that 
the country was full of dangerous suspicion and 
muttering of the death of her that was Lord 
Robert Dudley’s wife, and entreated that there 
might be an earnest investigation, with punish¬ 
ment if any were found guilty; for if the matter 
were hushed up or passed over, the displeasure of 
God, the dishonor of the queen, and the danger 
of the whole realm were to be feared.” Lord 
Robert oaused a coroner’s inquest to sit on the j 
bodv of his deceased wife, but we detect him in ! 

51 


correspondence with the foreman of the jury; 
and, although a verdict of accidental death was 
returned, Lord Robert continued to be burdened 
with the suspicion of having contrived the mur¬ 
der, or, to use Cecil’s more expressive words, 
“ was infamed by the death of his wife.” Throck¬ 
morton, the English ambassador at Paris, was 
so thoroughly mortified at the light in which this 
affair was regarded on the Continent that he 
wrote to Cecil: “ The bruits be so brim, and so 
maliciously reported here, touching the marriage 
of the Lord Robert and the death of his wife, that 
I know not where to turn me nor what coun¬ 
tenance to bear.”— Strickland’s Queens of Eng- 
! land. 

Page 383. — The Dowie Dens of Harrow.— 
This ballad was first published in the Minstrelsy 
I of the Scottish Border; but other versions of it 
| were previously in circulation, and it is stated by 
Sir Walter Scott to have been “ a very great favor¬ 
ite among the inhabitants of Ettrick Forest,” where 
it is universally believed to be founded on fact. 
Sir Walter, indeed, “found it easy to collect a 
variety of copiesand from them he collated the 
present edition—avowedly for the purpose of “ suit¬ 
ing the tastes of these more light and giddy-paced 
times.” A copy is contained in Motherwell’s 
Minstrelsy, Ancient and Modern; another in Bu¬ 
chan’s Ballads and Songs of the North of Scot¬ 
land ; it no doubt originated the popular compo¬ 
sition beginning— 

“ Busk ye, busk ye, my bonny, bonny bride,” 

! by Hamilton of Bangour, first published in 
! RaqjjSay’s Tea-Table Miscellany, and suggested 
! the ballad “The Braes of Yarrow,” by the Rev. 

John Logan. In Herd’s Collection, in Ritson’s 
j Scottish Songs, and in the Tea-Table Miscellany 
are to be found fragments of another ballad, 
entitled “ Willie’s drowned in Yarrow,” of which 
| this is the concluding stanza: 

“She sought him east, she sought him west, 

She sought him braid and narrow; 

Syne in the cleaving of a craig, 

She found him drowned in Yarrow.” 

Indeed, “Yarrow stream” has been a fertile 
source of poetry, and seems to have inspired the 
poets; the very sound is seductive: and, as Mr. 
Buchan remarks, “All who have attempted to 
sing its praise or celebrate the actions of those 
who have been its visitors have almost univer¬ 
sally succeeded in their attempts.” 

That the several versions of the story scat¬ 
tered among the people and preserved by them 
in some form or other had one common origin 
there can be little doubt. “ Tradition,” accord¬ 
ing to Sir Walter Scott, “places the event re¬ 
corded in the song very early, and it is probable 






NOTES EXPLANATORY ANI) CORROBORATIVE. 


.S02 


the ballad was composed soon afterward, although 
the language has been modernized in the course of 
its transmission to us through the inaccurate chan¬ 
nel of oral tradition.” “ The hero of the ballad,” 
he adds, “was a knight of great bravery, called 
Scottand he believes it refers to a duel fought 
at Deucharswyre, of which Annan’s Treat is a 
part, betwixt John Scott of Tushielaw and his 
brother-in-law Walter Scott, third son of Robert 
of Thirlstane, in which the latter was slain. 
Annan’s Treat is a low muir on the banks of the 
Yarrow, lying to the west of Yarrow kirk. Two 
tall unhewn masses of stone are erected about 
eighty yards distant from each other, and the 
least child, that can herd a cow, will tell the pas¬ 
senger that there He “ the two lords who were 
slain in single combat.” Sir Walter also informs 
us that, according to tradition, the murderer was 
the brother of either the wife or the betrothed 
bride of the murdered, and that the alleged cause 
of quarrel was the lady’s father having proposed 
to endow her with half of his property upon her 
marriage with a warrior of such renown. The 
name of the murderer is said to have been Annan, i 
hence the place of combat is still called Annan’s ; 
Treat.— Percy’s Reliques. 

Page 889. — Hartleap Well. —Ilartleap Well 
is a small spring of water about five miles from 
Richmond in Yorkshire, and near the side of the 
road that leads from Richmond to Askrigg. Its 
same is derived from a remarkable chase, the 
memory of which is preserved by the monuments 
spoken of in the second part of the following 
poem, which monuments do now exist as I have ! 
there described them.— Wordsworth, 8vo ed. 

Page 895. — Katharine Janfarie. — Of this 
ballad—first published in the Minstrelsy of the 
Scottish Border —the editor informs us that it 
is “ given from several recited copies.” It has | 
obviously undergone some alteration, yet much 
of the rugged character of the original has been 
retained. The scenery of the ballad is said by 
tradition to lie upon the banks of the Cadden- 
water, “a small rill which joins the Tweed (from 
the north) betwixt Inverleithen and Clovenford.” 
It is also traditionally stated that Katharine Jan- j 
farie “lived high up in the glen”—a beautiful 
and sequestered vale connected with Traquair, and 
situated about three miles above Traquair House. 
The recited copies, from which it is probable Sir 
Walter Scott collected the verses he has here j 
brought together, exist in Buchan’s Ancient Bal¬ 
lads and Svngs, and in Motherwell’s Minstrelsy, 
Ancient and Modern. It derives interest and im¬ 
portance, however, less from its intrinsic merit 
than from the circumstance of its having given 
lo Scott the hint upon which he founded one of 
the most brilliant and spirit-stirring of his com" 


positions — the famous and favorite ballad of 
“Y T oung Lochinvar.”— Percy’s Reliques. 

Page 397. — O’Connor’s Child. —The poem of 
“ O’Connor’s Child ” is an exquisitely finished and 
pathetic tale. The rugged and ferocious features 
of ancient feudal manners and family pride are 
there displayed in connection with female suffer¬ 
ing, love, and beauty, and with the romantic and 
warlike coloring suited to the country and times. 
It is full of antique grace and passionate energy 
—the mingled light and gloom of the wild Celtic 
character.— Chambers’s Cyclopsedia of English 
Literature. 

Page JfiO. — Prisoner of Chillon. — Francois 
de Bonnivard was born in Seyssel, in the depart¬ 
ment of Ain, in 1496. Having adopted republican 
opinions, he took sides with the Genevese against 
Duke Charles III. of Savoy; but he had the mis¬ 
fortune in 1530 to fall into the power of the latter, 
who confined him six years in the castle of Chil¬ 
lon. The Chateau de Chillon is situated between 
Clarens and Villeneuve, which last is at one ex¬ 
tremity of the Lake of Geneva. On its left arc 
the entrances of the Rhone, and opposite are the 
heights of Meillerie and the range of the Alps 
above Boveret and St. Gingo. Near it, on a hill 
behind, is a torrent; below it, washing its walls, 
the lake has been fathomed to the depth of eight 
hundred feet (French measure); within it are a 
range of dungeons, in which the early Reformers, 
and subsequently prisoners of state, were confined. 
Across one of the vaults is a beam black with age, 
on which we were informed that the condemned 
were formerly executed. In the cells are seven 
pillars, or rather eight, one being half merged in 
the wall; in some of these are rings for the fet¬ 
ters and fettered; in the pavement the steps of 
Bonnivard have left their traces. 

Page JfiJ,.. —F air Helen. —The story upon which 
this ballad is founded is thus related in the first 
edition of the Statistics of Scotland : “ In the burial- 
ground of Kirkconnell are still to be seen the 
tombstones of Fair Helen and her favorite lover, 
Adam Fleeming. She was a daughter of the fam¬ 
ily of Kirkconnell, and fell a victim to the jealousy 
of a lover. Being courted by two young gentle¬ 
men at the same time, the one of whom, thinking 
himself slighted, vowed to sacrifice the other to 
his resentment when he again discovered him in 
her company. An opportunity soon presented 
itself when the faithful pair, walking along the 
romantic banks of the Kirtle, were discovered 
from the opposite banks by the assassin. Helen, 
perceiving him lurking among the bushes, and 
dreading the fatal resolution, rushed to her lover’s 
bosom to rescue him from the danger, and thus 
receiving the wound intended for another, sank 
• ami'expired in her favorite’s arms. JIc immedi- 








NOTES EXPLANATORY AND CORROBORATIVE. 


so:} 


ately avenged her death and slew her murderer. 

I he inconsolable Adam Fleeming, now sinking 
under the pressure of grief, went abroad and 
served under the banners of Spain against the 
infidels. The impression, however, was too strong 
to be obliterated. The image of woe attended him 
thither, and the pleasing remembrance of the ten¬ 
der scenes that were past, with the melancholy 
reflection that they could never return, harassed 
his soul and deprived his mind of repose. He 
soon returned, and stretching himself on her grave, 
expired, and was buried by her side. Upon the 
tombstone are engraven a sword and cross, with 
‘ Hie jacet Adamus Fleeming.’ ”— Burns's Works, 
Blackie and Son’s edition. 

Page 405 .— Rosabelle. —Among the sagas of 
the Scotch nobility is the well-known legend that 
Rosslyn Chapel is supernaturally lighted up when¬ 
ever death is impending over the house of St. 
Clair. The chapel is so disposed that its windows 
catch all the reflections of the gorgeous Scottish 
sunsets, and this arrangement, no doubt, has given 
rise to the legend, which in a more superstitious 
age was an accepted belief. A correspondent, 
writing to a cburch contemporary, mentions that 
he was in the chapel only a week before the death 
of the late Earl Rosslyn, when it was most bril¬ 
liantly lighted up—-an incident which might be 
almost regarded as a prophetic sign. The chapel 
custodian said that in all his experience he had 
never seen such a sight .—Liverpool Mercury. 

Page 411 .— God’s Judgment on a Wicked Bish¬ 
op. —It hapned in the year 914, that there was an 
exceeding great famine in Germany, at what time 
Otho, surnamed the Great was Emperor, and one 
Hatto, once Abbot of Fulda, was Archbishop of 
Mentz, of the Bishops after Crescens and Crescen- 
tius the two and thirtieth, of the Archbishops after 
St. Bonifacius the thirteenth. This Hatto in the 
time of this great famine afore-mentioned, when 
he saw the poor people of the country exceedingly 
oppressed with famine, assembled a great com¬ 
pany of them together into a Barne, and, like a 
most accursed and mercilesse caitiffe, burnt up 
those poor innocent souls, that were so far from 
doubting any such matter, that they rather hoped 
to receive some comfort and relief at his hands. 
The reason that moved the prelat to commit that 
execrable impiety was, because he thought the 
famine would the sooner cease, if those unprofit¬ 
able beggars, that consumed more bread than they 
were worthy to eat, were dispatched out of the 
world. For he said that those poor folks were 
like to Mice, that were good for nothing but to 
devour corne. But God Almighty, the just aven¬ 
ger of the poor folks quarrel, did not long suffer 
this hainous tyranny, this most detestable fact, 
unpunished. For he mustered up an army of Mice 


against the Archbishop, and sent them to perse¬ 
cute him as his furious Alastors, so that they af¬ 
flicted him both day and night, and would not 
suffer him to take his rest in anj' place. Where¬ 
upon the Prelate, thinking lie should be secure 
from the injury of Mice if he were in a certain 
tower, that standeth in the Rhine near to the 
towne, betook himself unto the said tower as to a 
safe refuge and sanctuary from his enemies, and 
locked himself in. But the innumerable troupes 
of Mice chased him continually very eagerly, and 
swumrne unto him upon the top of the water to 
execute the just judgment ot God, and so at last 
he was most miserably devoured by those sillie 
creatures; who pursued-him with such bitter hos¬ 
tility, that it is recorded they scraped and knawed 
out his very name from the walls and tapistry 
wherein it was written, after they had so cruelly 
devoured his body. Wherefore the tower wherein 
he was eaten up by the Mice is shewn to this day, 
for a perpetual monument to all succeeding ages 
of the barbarous and inhuman tyranny of this 
impious Prelate, being situate in a little green 
Island in the midst of the Rhine near to the towne 
of Bingen, and is commonly called in the German 
Tongue the Mowse-turn.— Coryat's Crudities. 

Page 413. — The Doncaster St. Lbger. —“ This 
poem is intended to illustrate the spirit of York¬ 
shire racing, now, happily—or unhappily, as the 
case may 1 be—on the decline. The perfect ac¬ 
quaintance of every peasant on the ground with 
the pedigrees, performances, and characters of the 
horses engaged, his genuine interest in the result, 
and the mixture of hatred and contempt which he 
used to feel for the Newmarket favorite who came 
down to carry off his great national prize, must 
be well known to every one who forty years ago 
crossed the Trent in August or September. Alto¬ 
gether, it constituted a peculiar modification of 
English feeling which I thought deserved to be 
recorded; and, in default of a more accomplished 
Pindar, I have endeavored here to do.”— Doyle’s 
Poems. 

[The author is describing the St. Leger of 1827, 
when the northern mare Matilda defeated Mame¬ 
luke, the winner of the Derby.— Ed.] 

Page 416 . — The Lake of the Dismal Swamp.— 
Moore’s “ Lake of the Dismal Swamp,” written at 
Norfolk, in Virginia, is founded on the following 
legend: “A young man who lost his mind upon 
the death of a girl he loved, and who, suddenly 
disappearing from his friends, was never afterward 
heard of. As he had frequently said ki his rav¬ 
ings that the girl was not dead, but gone to the 
Dismal Swamp, it is supposed he had wandered 
into that dreary wilderness, and had died of hun¬ 
ger or had been lost in some of its dreadful mo¬ 
rasses.”— Frederick Saunders's Festival of Song. 













804 


NOTES EXPLANATORY AND CORROBORATIVE. 


Page 4 17 . —The High Tide oh the Coast of 
Lincolnshire. —A thousand years and more ago 
a good monk named St. Botolph founded a church 
in what is now Lincolnshire, on the river Lindis 
and near the sea. The town which grew up around 
this old church came to be called “ Botolph's 
Town,” afterward contracted into “ Boston.” Here 
the Rev. John Cotton was vicar of the parish 
church before he came to New England, two hun¬ 
dred and fifty years ago, and hence came the 
name for the new town which sprang up on Mas¬ 
sachusetts Bay. In old Boston, too, was born 
Jean Ingelow, the sweet English poetess, under 
the very shadows of the tall square tower of Bos¬ 
ton church, which is a most conspicuous landmark 
for miles around over the fens and flat lands of 
Lincolnshire. “ We had a lofty nursery,” she says, 
“ with a bow-window that overlooked the river. 
My brother and I were constantly wondering at 
this river. The coming up of the tides and the 
ships, and the jolly' gangs of tow-ers dragging 
them on with a monotonous song, made a daily 
delight for us.” One of the stories of olden times 
which Jean Ingelow learned in these childhood 
days was that of a memorable high tide which 
invaded the river and adjacent country in 1571, 
a ‘ stolen tyde,’ as it was called—a tide, namely, 
which was not the result of storm, but rose in 
calm weather and stole inland without warning. 
In this instance the bells of Boston church-tower 
rang out a peal known as ‘ The Brides of Ender- 
by,’ the signal of danger. The tide swept up with 
fearful volume and rapidity, and created a tragic 
devastation the memory of which is one of old 
Boston's heritages.”— Literary World. 

Page 4 10 . —Barbara Allen’s Cruelty. —There 
are several versions of this popular ballad, and 
we have chosen the one adopted by Mr. Alling- 
ham in his Ballad Book. Allingham says: “No 
doubt, however, those who have been bred up, as 
it were, in a particular form of a ballad will be 
apt, at least at first, to mislike any other form. 
One who has had impressed upon his youthful 
mind— 

‘ It was in or about the Martinmas time. 

When the green leaves were a-fallin’, 

That Sir John Graeme in the west countrie 
Fell in love with Barbara Allen,’— 
may very likely be ill-content to find name of per¬ 
son and season of year altered, as they arc in this 
equally authentic version. But let him not, there¬ 
fore, fall foul of the editor, who was bound to 
choose without prejudice between Autumn and 
Spring, Jemmy Grove and Sir John.” 

Page 4 . 19 .— Lament of the Border Widow.— 
This fragment, obtained from recitation in the 
Forest of Ettrick, is said to relate to the execution 
of Cockburne of Ilenderland, a Border freebooter 


hanged over the gate of his own tower by James 
V. in the course of that memorable expedition in 
1521) which was fatal to Johnie Armstrong, Adam 
Scott of Tushielaw, and many other marauders. 
—Sir Walter Scott. 

Page 445 . — Ode to the West Wind. —Shelley 
says, “This poem was conceived and chiefly writ¬ 
ten in a wood that skirts the Arno near Florence 
(in 1819), and on a day when that tempestuous 
wind, whose temperature is at once mild and 
animating, was collecting the vapors which pour 
down the autumnal rain.”— English Odes by 
Edmund Gosse. 

Page 465.— The Death of the Flowers.— The 
verse beginning— 

“And then I think of one who in her youthful 
beauty died,” 

is an allusion to the memory of the poet’s sister, 
who died of consumption in 1824.— Duyckincle’s 
Cyclopsedin of American Literature. 

Page 482.—To A Nightingale.— Lord Hough¬ 
ton says: “In the spring of 1819 a nightingale 
built her nest next Mr. Brown’s house. Keats 
took great pleasure in her song, and one morning 
took his chair from the breakfast table to the 
grass-plot under a plum tree, where he remained 
between two and three hours. He then reached 
the house with some scraps of paper in his hand, 
which Mr. Brown put together in the form of this 
ode.”— English Odes by Edmund Gosse. 

Page 519. — Drifting. —Read had never seen 
the Bay of Naples (except in his mind’s eye) when 
that poem was written. He wrote it while on a 
visit to the home of his mother-in-law, Mrs. 
Laing, in Brooklyn, on a stormy, sleeting, snowy 
Sunday in midwinter and while suffering under a 
severe attack of influenza. While lounging on 
the sofa and experiencing the combined depress¬ 
ing effects of his malady and the gloomy weather 
he thought how different must be the sensation of 
one floating at will in midsummer on the Bay of 
Naples. His fertile imagination transported him 
to that charming locality as seen in its summer 
glory and radiant beauty, and under these inspir¬ 
ing influences this now popular poem was written. 
When he subsequently visited Naples and observed 
all the surroundings of the famed locality, he real¬ 
ized that, full as the poem was of accurate de¬ 
scription, it was incomplete in making no refer¬ 
ence to the island of Sorrento. He then composed 
the following verse: 

“ In lofty lines, 

’Mid palms and pines. 

And olives, aloes, elms and vines, 





N OTES EX PL a X. I TOR Y 


Sorrento swings 
On sunset wings 

Where Tasso’s spirit soars and sings,” 

which he directed should appear as the fourth 
verse in subsequent editions of his works. 

Page 521. —Emigrants in the Bermudas.— 
Representative government was introduced into 
the Bermudas in 1620, and in 1621 the Bermuda 
Company of London issued a sort of charter to 
the colony, including rights and liberties—among 
them liberty of worship—that attracted many of 
those English emigrants whose feeling Marvell 
has here fashioned into song.— Morley’s Shorter 
Poems of the English Language. 

Page 522. —Lines on the Mermaid Tavern.— 
The Mermaid Tavern was the resort of Ben 
Jonson and his literary friends, members of a 
club established by Sir Walter Raleigh in 1603, 
and numbering among them Shakespeare, Beau¬ 
mont, Fletcher, Donne, Selden, and the noblest 
names in English authorship. Truly might Beau¬ 
mont, in his poetical epistle to Jonson, exclaim— 
“ What things have seen 

Done at the Mermaid; heard words that have 
been 

So nimble, and so full of subtle flame, 

As if that every one from whom they came 

Had mean’d to put his whole wit in a jest!” 

— Chambers’8 Book of Days. 

Page 532. — IIelvellyn. — In the spring of 
1805 a young gentleman of talents, and of a most 
amiable disposition, perished by losing his way on 
the mountain Hellvellyn. His remains were not 
discovered till three months afterward, when they 
were found guarded by a faithful terrier bitch, his 
constant attendant during frequent solitary ram¬ 
bles through the wilds of Cumberland and West¬ 
moreland.— Scott’s Poems. 

Page 535. — The Meeting op the Waters.— 
‘•'The Meeting of the Waters” forms a part of 
that beautiful scenery which lies between Rath- 
drum and Arklow, in the county of Wicklow, 
and these lines were suggested by a visit to this 
romantic spot in the summer of the year 1807.— 
Moore’s Works, 8yo. 

Page 539. —The Arsenal at Springfield.— 
“It was on this journey (i. e. their wedding-jour¬ 
ney) that, passing through Springfield, they vis¬ 
ited the arsenal. While Mr. Sumner was endeav¬ 
oring to impress upon the attendant that the 
money expended upon these weapons of war 
would have been much better spent upon a 
great library, Mrs. Longfellow pleased her hus¬ 
band by remarking how like an organ looked 
the ranged and shining gun-barrels, which cov¬ 
ered the walls from floor to ceiling, and suggest¬ 


AXJ) CORROBORATIVE. 805 


ing what mournful music Death would bring from 
them. ‘ We grew quite warlike against war,’ she 
wrote, ‘ and I urged H. to write a peace-poem.’ 
From this hint came ‘The Arsenal at Springfield,’ 
written some months later.”— Life of Henry 
Wadsworth Longfellow, by Samuel Longfellow. 

Page 51fi. — Old St. David’s at Radnor.— 
Built in 1715, the exterior has been but little 
changed. The interior has been recently restored 
with good taste and judgment. 

Page 5J3. — On the Morning of Christ’s Nativ¬ 
ity. —This magnificent ode, called by Hallam “per¬ 
haps the finest in the English language,” was com¬ 
posed, as we learn from Milton’s own heading of 
it in the edition of 1645, in the year 1629. Mil- 
ton was then twenty-one years of age, in the 
sixth academic year at Cambridge, and a B. A. 
of a year’s standing. There is an interesting 
allusion to the ode by Milton himself, when lie 
was in the act of composing it, in the sixth of 
his Latin elegies. In that elegy, addressed to 
his friend Charles Diodati, residing in the coun¬ 
try, in answer to a friendly epistle which Dioda¬ 
ti hail sent to him on the 13th of December, 1629, 
there is a distinct description of the “ Ode on the 
Nativity ” as then finished, or nearly so, and ready 
to be shown to Diodati, together with the express 
information that it ivas begun on Christmas Day, 
1629.— Milton, Masson’s ed. 

Page 570. — Rebecca’s Hymn. —It was in the 
twilight of the day when her trial—if it could be 
called such—had taken place, that a low knock 
was heard at the door of Rebecca’s prison-cham¬ 
ber. It disturbed not the inmate, who was then 
engaged in the evening prayer recommended by 
her religion, and which concluded with a hymn 
which we have ventured thus to translate into 
English.— Ivanhoe. 

Page 577. — Abide with Me.—“W ritten about 
two months before the author’s death, and in 
prospect of that event.”— Lyric Britannica. 

Page 613. —I Would Not Live Alway.—T his 
hymn was written without the remotest idea that 
any portion of it would ever be employed in the 
devotions of the Church. Whatever service it 
has done in that way is owing to the late Bishop 
of Pennsylvania, then the rector of St. Ann’s 
Church, Brooklyn, who made the selection of 
verses out of the whole which constitutes the 
present hymn, and offered it to the Committee 
on Hymns appointed by the General Convention 

of-. The hymn was at first rejected by the 

committee, of which the unknown author was a 
member, who, upon a satirical criticism being 
made upon it, earnestly voted against its adop¬ 
tion. It was admitted on the importunate appli- 








800 


NOTES EXPLANATORY AND CORROBOPATfVE. 


cation of Dr. Onderdonk to the bishops on the 
committee.— Duyckinck’s Cyclopaedia of Ameri¬ 
can Literature. 

Page 688. —His Last Verses. —Clare died in the 
county lunatic asylum at Northampton, England. 
His life was one continuous struggle with abject 
poverty and its too often accompanying vices, and 
in this poem, composed in the few lucid intervals 
of his last sickness, he sadly sums up the result. 

Page 650. —Elegy Written in a Country 
Churchyard. —As he was floating down the 
river to attack Quebec, General Wolfe read the 
“ Elegy ” in low tones to his officers, and upon 
its conclusion said : “ I had rather be the author 
of that poem than take Quebec”—a remark which 
has perhaps done as much to perpetuate Wolfe’? 
name as the capture of Quebec, great as that 
achievement was. 

Page 657. — Stanzas. —These beautiful lines 
were composed by Hood on his death-bed. 

Page 662. —To a Skeleton. —The manuscript 
of this poem was found near a skeleton in the 
London Royal College of Surgeons about 1820. 
The author has never been found, though a re¬ 
ward of fifty guineas was offered for his discovery. 
—Rossiter Johnson’s Single Famous Poems. 

Page 666. — Resignation. —This poem was writ¬ 
ten soon after the death of his daughter Fanny. 
In his diary, under date of November 12, 1848, 
he says: “ I feel very sad to-day. I miss very 
much my dear little Fanny. An unappeasable 
longing to see her comes over me at times which 
I can hardly control.” 

Page 675. — The Lie. —This celebrated poem 
has been attributed to Joshua Sylvester. In a 
note of Mr. Peter Cunningham’s to his edition 
of Campbell’s Lives of the Poets, referring to the 
passage in which Campbell says, “We would will¬ 
ingly ascribe the ‘Soul’s Errand’ to him (Ral¬ 
eigh),” we read, “ ‘ The Lie’ is ascribed to Sir "Wal¬ 
ter Raleigh in an answer to it written at the time, 
and recently discovered in the Cheetham Library 
at Manchester. That it was written by Raleigh 
is now almost past a doubt.” — Bellew’s Poets’ 
Corner. 

Page 676. — Armstrong’s Good-Night. —These 
verses are said to have been composed by one of 
the Armstrongs, executed for the murder of Sir 
John Carmichael of Edrom, Warden of the Mid¬ 
dle Marches. Whether these are the original 
words will admit of a doubt.— Sir Walter Scott. 

This is one of the songs which so touched Gold¬ 
smith in his youth that nothing he heard sung in 
after years had an equal charm for him. “The 
music of the finest singer,” he wrote in the Bee, 


October 13, 1759, “is dissonance to what I felt 
when our old dairymaid sung me into tears with 
‘Johnny Armstrong’s Last Good-Night’ or the 
‘ Cruelty of Barbara Allen and in a letter to his 
Irish friend IIodson, December 27, 1757, he says: 
“ If I go to the opera where Signora Columba pours 
out all the mazes of melody, I sit and sigh for 
‘Lishoy’s Fireside’ and ‘Johnny Armstrong’s 
Last Good-Night,’ from Peggy Golden .”—Mary 
Carlyle Ait ken. 

Page 697 .— Battle of Blenheim. —The battle 
of Blenheim or Hochstadt was fought August 13, 
1704, between the English and Austrians, under 
the Duke of Marlborough and Prince Eugene, 
and the French and Bavarians, under Marshal 
Tallard, Marson, and the Elector of Bavaria. 
The latter army, being badly handled and hud¬ 
dled together in the village of Blenheim, was sud¬ 
denly attacked by Marlborough and completely 
defeated, losing 30,000 in killed, wounded, and 
prisoners. Marlborough’s loss was but 11,000. 
This victory completely shattered the French 
prestige which Louis XIV. had struggled s<« 
hard to obtain. 

Page 718 .— Lines Written by One in the 
Tower. —Chidiock Tychborn shared in Babing- 
ton’s conspiracy, and was executed with him in 
1586. (For a fuller account see Disraeli’s Curios¬ 
ities of Literature.) 

Page 722 .— Alexander’s Feast. —St. Cecilia is 
said to have been a Roman lady born about a. d. 
295, bred in the Christian faith, and married to a 
Pagan nobleman, Valerianus. She told her hus¬ 
band that she was visited nightly by an angel, 
whom he was allowed to see after his own conver¬ 
sion. The celestial youth had brought from par¬ 
adise two wreaths, which he gave to them. One 
was of the lilies of heaven, the other of its roses. 
They both suffered martyrdom at the beginning 
of the third century, in the reign of Septimius 
Severus. The angel by whom Cecilia was visited 
is referred to in the closing lines of Dryden’s 
“ Ode,” coupled with a tradition that he had been 
drawn down to her from heaven by her melodies. 
In the earliest traditions of Cecilia there is no 
mention of her skill in music. This part of her 
story seems to have been developed by a little 
play of fancy over her relations with the angel, 
and the great Italian painters—Raffaelle, Dome- 
nichino, and others—fixed her position as the pa¬ 
tron saint of music by representing her always 
with symbols of harmony, a harp or organ-pipes. 
Then came the suggestion adopted in Dryden’s 
“Ode,” that the organ was invented by St. Ce¬ 
cilia. The practice of holding musical festivals on 
St. Cecilia’s Day, the 22d of November, began to 






807 


VOTES EXPLANATORY 


prevail in England at the close of the seventeenth 
century. The earliest piece composed for such a 
meeting was produced in 1683, and was by Henry 
Purcell. From that date to about 1740 there was 
an annual Cecilian festival in London, and the 
fashion spread into the provinces.— Morley's 
Shorter Poems. 

Pape 733.—A Canadian Boat-Song. —I wrote 
these words to an air which our boatmen sung to 
us frequently. The wind was so unfavorable that 
they were obliged to row all the way, and we were 
five days in descending the river from Kingston 
to Montreal, exposed to an intense sun during the 
day, and at night forced to take shelter from the 
dews in any miserable hut upon the banks that 
would receive us. But the magnificent scenery 
of the St. Lawrence repays all such difficulties. 

Our voyageurs had good voices, and sung per¬ 
fectly in tune together. The original words of the 
air to which I adapted these stanzas appeared to 
be a long, incoherent story, of which I could un¬ 
derstand but little, from the barbarous pronuncia¬ 
tion of the Canadians. It begins— 

Dans mon chemin j’ai recon t re 

Deux cavaliers tri-s-bien months; 

and the retrain to every verse was— 

A l’ombre d’un bois je men vais jouer, 

A l’ombre d'un bois je m’en vais danser. 

I ventured to harmonize this air, and have pub¬ 
lished it. Without that charm which association 
gives to every little memorial of scenes or feelings 
that are past, the melody may perhaps be thought 
common and trifling; but I remember when we 
have entered, at sunset, upon one of those beau¬ 
tiful lakes into which the St. Lawrence so grandly 
and unexpectedly opens, I have heard this simple 
air with a pleasure which the finest compositions 
of the first masters have never given me; and 
now there is not a note of it which does not recall 
to my memory the dip of our oars in the St. Law¬ 
rence, the flight of our boat down the rapids, and 
all those new and fanciful impressions to which 
my heart was alive during the whole of this very 
interesting voyage. Moore's Poems, note. 

Page 737. —A Vision upon this Conceit of the 
Faerie Queene. —This sonnet is the first among 
the commendatory poems prefixed to the earliest 
edition of the Faerie Queene. As original in con¬ 
ception as it is grand in execution, it is about the 
finest compliment which was ever paid by poet to 
poet, such as it became Raleigh to indite and 
Spenser to receive. Yet it labors under a serious 
defect. The great poets of the past lose no whit 
of their glory because later poets are found worthy 
to share it. Petrarch in his lesser, and Homer in 


-1 ND CORROBORA T1YE. 


his greater sphere, are just as illustrious since 
Spenser appeared as before.— Richard Chenevix 
Trench. 

Page 757.— Footsteps of Angels. —“The refer¬ 
ence in the fourth stanza is to the poet’s friend 
and brother-in-law George W. Pierce, of whom 
he said long after, 'I have never ceased to feel 
that in his death something was taken from my 
own life which could never be restored. ’ News 
of his friend’s death reached Mr. Longfellow in 
Heidelberg on Christmas eve, 1835, less than a 
month after the death of Mrs. Longfellow, who is 
referred to in the sixth and following stanzas.’*— 
Note by Horace E. Scudder to Riverside Edition 
of Longfellow’s Poems, vol. vi. p. 25. 

Page 758.— Excelsior. —“I have had the pleas¬ 
ure of receiving your note in regard to the poem 
Excelsior, and very willingly give you my inten¬ 
tion in writing it. This was no more than to dis¬ 
play in a series of pictures the life of a man, a 
genius, resisting all temptations, laying aside all 
fears, heedless of all warnings, and pressing right 
on to accomplish his purpose. His motto is ‘Ex¬ 
celsior’— ‘higher.’ He passes through the Alpine 
village—through the rough, cold paths of the 
world—where the peasants cannot understand 
him, and where his watchword is in an ‘unknown 
tongue. ’ He disregards the happiness of domes¬ 
tic peace and sees the glaciers—his fate—before 
him. He disregards the warning of the old 
man’s wisdom and the fascinations of woman’s 
love. He answers to all, ‘Higher yeti’ The 
monks of St. Bernard are the representatives 
of religious forms and ceremonies, and with their 
oft-repeated prayers mingles the sound of his 
voice, telling them there is something higher than 
forms and ceremonies. Filled with these aspira¬ 
tions, he perishes without having reached the per¬ 
fection he longed for, and the voice heard in the 
air is the promise of immortality and progress 
ever upward.’’— Letter from the author to Mr. C. 
K. Tuckerman. 

Page 762.—A Man’s a Man for a’ That.—A 
great critic (Aikin) on songs says that love and 
wine are the exclusive themes for song-writing. 
The following is on neither subject, and conse¬ 
quently is no song, but will be allowed, I think, 
to be two or three pretty good prose thoughts in¬ 
verted into rhyme.— In a letter from Burns to G. 
Thompson. 

Page 778.— What Mr. Robinson Thinks. —This 
satire was written to ridicule the habit of compar¬ 
atively obscure personages writing long letters to 
the newspapers supporting this or that candidate. 
The General C. mentioned in the poem is Gen. 
Caleb Cushing, afterward Attorney-General of 
the United States. During his absence at the 
head of his troops in the Mexican war he was 
nominated for Governor of Massachusetts, but 
was not elected. 
















ADDITIONAL NOTES. 


Page 80 . — The Bots. —“The members of the 
Harvard College class of 1829 referred to in the 
poem are: * Doctor,’ Francis Thomas; ‘Judge,’ 
lx. T. Bigelow, Thief Justice of the supreme 
Court of Massachusetts ; ‘Speaker,’ lion. Francis 
B. Crowninshield, Speaker of the Massachusetts 
House of Representatives; * Mr. Mayor,’ G. W. 
Richardson, of Worcester, Mass.; ‘Member of 
Congress,’ Hon. George T. Davis: ‘ Reverend,’ 
James Freeman Clarke; ‘boy with the grave 
mathematical look,’ Benjamin Peirce ; * boy with 
a three-decker brain,’ Judge Benjamin R. Curtis, 
of the Supreme Court of the United States; 
‘ nice youngster of excellent pith,’ S. F. Smith, 
author of ‘ My Country, ’tis of Thee.’ "—.Vote to 
Cambridge Edition of Holmes' Poems. • 

Page 102 . —Robin Adair. —The plaintive air 
of this famous song has been adapted to several 
hymns, and is often heard in fashionable churches, 
but few imagine that the song was the real ro¬ 
mance of an eminent Dublin surgeon, who had 
been ostracised and finally expelled from London 
for some social peccadilloes. Having made the 
acquaintance professionally of Lady Caroline 
Keppel, who fell in love with him. he used to hum 
an Irish air which she adapted to the words, 
as they now exist in song-books. They married, 
after much opposition from her noble family, but 
she lived only three years after her marriage. 
Their son was Sir Robert Adair, a famous diplo¬ 
matist, who lived to attain the age of ninety-two. 

Page 118 .— Jeaxnie Morrison.— Jeannie Morri¬ 
son was the school-girl love of Motherwell when he 
went to school in Edinburgh in ISOS. Though the 
acquaintance only of a short six months’ duration, 
the impression made by her beauty and lovely 
character was a lasting one. 

Page 13 —Sonnets from the Portcgfese.— 
“ During the months of their brief courtship, 
closing, as all the world knows, in the clandes¬ 
tine flight and romantic wedding of September 
12, 1846, neither poet showed any verses to the 
other. 

“Mr. Browning, in particular, had not the 
slightest notion that the circumstances of their 
betrothal had led Miss Barrett into any artistic 
expression of feeling. As little did he suspect it 
SOS 


during their honeymoon in Paris, or during their 
first crowded weeks in Italy. They settled at 
length in Pisa, and being quitted by Mrs. Jamie¬ 
son and her niece in a very calm and happy mood, 
the young couple took up each his or her separate 
work. 

“ Their custom was, Mr. Browning said, to write 
alone, and not to show each other what they had 
written. This was a rule which he sometime, 
broke through : but she, never. He had the habit 
of working in a downstairs room, where their 
meals were spread, while Mrs. Browning studied 
in a room on the floor above. One day, early in 
1847, their breakfast being over, Mrs. Browning 
went upstairs, while her husband stood at the 
window watching the street till the table should 
be cleared. He was presently aware of somebody 
behind him, although the servant was gone. It 
was Mrs. Browning, who held him by the shoul¬ 
ders to prevent his turning to look at her, and at 
the same time quickly pushed a packet of papers 
into one of the pockets of his coat. 

She told him to read that, and to tear it up if 
be did not like it: and then she fled again to her 
own room. Mr. Browning settled himself at the 
table, and unfolded the package. It contained 
the series of sonnets which have now become si. 
illustrious. As he read, his emotion and delight 
may be conceived. Before he had finished it was 
impossible for him to restrain himself, and, regard¬ 
less of his promise, he rushed upstairs and 
stormed that guarded citadel. 

“ He was early conscious that these were treas¬ 
ures not to be kept from the world. ‘ I dared not 
reserve them to myself.’ he said. * the finest sonnet- 
written in any language since Shakespeare'#.’ 
When it was determined to publish the sonnet- in 
the volume of 1850, the question of the title an -e. 
The name which was ultimately chosen, ‘ Sonnet# 

■ from the Portuguese,’ was invented by Mr. Brown¬ 
ing as an ingenious device to veil the true au¬ 
thorship. and yet to suggest kinship with that 
beautiful lyric called Caterina to Camoens. iu 
which so similar a passion had been expressed. 

“ Long before he ever heard of these poems, 
Mr. Browning called his wife * his own little Por¬ 
tuguese ’: and so. when she proposed Sonnets trans¬ 
lated from the Bosnian, he. catching at the happy 
thought of • translated,’ replied, • No,not Bosnian; 




A DDITIONA L NO TES. 


809 


that means nothing; but from the Portuguese! 
They are Caterina’s sonnets!’ And so, in half a 
joke, half a conceit, the famous title was invented.” 

•—Edmund Gosse, in a recent edition of Mrs. 
Browning’s poems. 

Page I 48 .— Annabel Lee. —“‘Annabel Lee’ 
was the poetic name bestowed by Poe on his 
cousin, Virginia Clemm, who became his wife in 
1836. She was a beautiful girl, for whom he 
possessed and always cherished the sweetest and 
tenderest feelings. He strained every nerve to 
provide a home for her and for her mother, who 
continued with him and Virginia, to care for 
them and to assist them all through the few years 
of their married life, and who, even after the death 
of the idolized wife and daughter—she died in 
1847—acted the part of a mother in the noblest 
sense of the word to the bereaved poet. If Vir¬ 
ginia had lived, there is no doubt that Poe would 
have been a far different man; as it was, the 
greater portion of his life was a mistake, intensi¬ 
fied by a highly nervous temperament and weak 
impulses; but his name will never die, for‘An¬ 
nabel Lee,’ one of the least of his poems, is alone 
sufficient to secure the applause of all posterity.” 
— Fitzgerald’s Stories of Famous Songs. 

Page 161 .— 0 Nanny, wilt thou Go with Me? 
—“ It was occasioned thus. In 1771 Mrs. Percy 
was summoned to the Court of George III., and 
appointed nurse to the infant Prince Edward, who 
was afterward Duke of Kent and father of our 
present sovereign, Queen Victoria. When Mrs. 
Percy had fulfilled the duties required of her, and 
returned home to her disconsolate husband, he 
greeted her with the verses, ‘ 0 Nanny, will you 
go with me?’—Nanny being Mrs. Percy’s Chris¬ 
tian name. The affecting ballad very quickly 
took high rank, and was regarded by the‘Gen¬ 
tleman's Magazine’of 1780 as ‘ the most beau¬ 
tiful song in the English language.’ It is only 
just to Bishop Percy to say that the song was 
originally written entirely in English without any 
Scottish expressions or words at all.”— Fitzger¬ 
ald’s Stories of Famous Songs. 

Page 185.— Go, Lovely Rose.— “ A lady of 
Cambridge lent Waller’s poems to Henry Rirke 
White, and when he returned them to her she 
discovered this additional stanza written by him 
at the end of this poem : 

“* Vet though thou fade, 

From thy dead leaves let fragrance rise; 

And teach the maid 
That Goodness Time’s rude hand defies, 

That Virtue lives when Beauty dies.’ ” 

—Henry Kirke White's Poems. 


Page 187 . —Love Not. —This most popular song 
of its day was the heart-wail of the gifted poetess, 
whose brutal treatment by her husband, who was 
a London magistrate, and her romance with Lord 
Melbourne, Queen Victoria’s first premier, are 
matters of history. 

Page 274 - —She is Far prom the Land where 
Her Young Hero Sleeps. —“Every one mast 
recollect the tragical story of young Emmett the 
Irish patriot: it was too touching to be soon for¬ 
gotten. During the troubles in Ireland he was 
tried, condemned, and executed, on a charge of 
treason. His fate made a deep impression on 
public sympathy. He was so young—so intelli¬ 
gent—so generous—so brave—so everything that 
we are apt to like in a young man. His conduct 
under trial, too, was so lofty and intrepid. The 
\ noble indignation with which he repelled the 
charge of treason against his country—the elo- 
i quent vindication of his name—and his pathetic 
appeal to posterity, in the hopeless hour of 
condemnation—all these entered deeply in every 
generous bosom, and even his enemies lamented 
the stern policy that dictated his execution. 

“ But there was one heart whose anguish it 
would be impossible to describe. In happier days 
and fairer fortunes, he had won the affections of 
a beautiful and interesting girl, the daughter of 
a late celebrated Irish barrister. She loved him 
with the disinterested fervor of a woman's first 
and early love. AVhen every worldly maxim ar¬ 
rayed itself against him ; when blasted in fortune, 
and disgrace and danger darkened around his 
name, she loved him the more ardently for his very 
sufferings. If, then, his fate could awaken the 
sympathy even of his foes, what must have been 
the agony of her, whose whole soul was oc¬ 
cupied by his image? Let those tell who have 
had the portals of the tomb suddenly closed 
between them and the being they most loved on 
ear th—who have sat at its threshold, as one shut 
out in a cold and lonely world, from whence all 
that was most lovely and loving had departed. 

“ But then the horrors of such a grave!—so 
frightful, so dishonored! There was nothing for 
memory to dwell on that could soothe the pang of 
separation—none of those tender, though melan¬ 
choly circumstances, that endear the parting scene 
—nothing to melt sorrow into those blessed tears, 
sent, like the dews of heaven, to revive the heart 
in the parting hour of anguish. 

“ To render her widowed situation more desolate, 
she had incurred her father’s displeasure by her 
unfortunate attachment, and was an exile from 
the paternal roof. But could the sympathy and 
kind offices of friends have reached a spirit so 
shocked and driven in by horror, she would have 









810 


ADDITION A L NOTES. 


experienced no want of consolation, for the Irish 
are a people of quick and generous sensibilities. 
The most delicate and cherishing attentions were 
paid her by families of wealth and distinction. 
She was led into society, and they tried all kinds 
of occupation and amusement to dissipate her 
grief, and wean her from the tragical story of her 
lover. But it was all in vain. There are some 
strokes of calamity that scathe and scorch the 
soul—that penetrate to the vital seat of happiness 
—and blast it, never again to put forth bud or 
blossom. She never objected to frequent the 
haunts of pleasure, but she was as much alone 
there as in the depths of solitude. She walked 
about in a sad reverie, apparently unconscious of 
the world around her. She carried with her an 
inward woe that mocked at all the blandish¬ 
ments of friendship and ‘heeded not the song of 
the charmer, charm he never so wisely.’ 

“ The person who told me her story had seen her 
at a masquerade. There can be no exhibition of 
far-gone wretchedness more striking and painful 
than to meet it in such a scene. To find it wander¬ 
ing like a spectre, lonely and joyless, where all 
around is gay—to see it dressed out in the trap¬ 
pings of mirth, and looking so wan and woebegone, 
as if it had tried in vain to cheat the poor heart 
into a momentary forgetfulness of sorrow. After 
strolling through the splendid rooms and giddy 
crowd with an air of utter abstraction, she sat her¬ 
self down on the steps of an orchestra, and looking 
about for some time with a vacant air, that showed 
her insensibility to the garish scene, she began, 
with the capriciousness of a sickly heart, to war¬ 
ble a little plaintive air. She had an exquisite 
voice; but on this occasion it was so simple, so 
touching—it breathed forth such a soul of wretch¬ 
edness—that she drew a crowd, mute and silent, 
around her, and melted every one into tears. 

“ The story of one so true and tender could not 
but excite great interest in a country remarkable 
for enthusiasm. It completely won the heart of a 
brave officer, who paid his addresses to her, and 
thought that one so true to the dead could not but 
prove affectionate to the living. She declined his 
attentions, for her thoughts were irrecoverably 
engrossed by the memory of her former lover. 
He, however, persisted in his suit. He solicited 
not her tenderness, but her esteem. He was 
assisted by her conviction of his worth, and her 
sense of her own destitute and dependent situation, 
for she was existing on the kindness of friends. 
In a word, he at length succeeded in gaining her 
hand, though with the solemn assurance that her 
heart was unalterably another’s. 

“ He took her with him to Sicily, hoping that a 
change of scene might wear out the remembrance 
of early woes. She was an amiable and exemplary 


wife, and made an effort to be a happy one ; but 
nothing could cure the silent and devouring mel¬ 
ancholy that had entered into her very soul. She 
wasted away in a slow, but hopeless decline, and 
at length sunk into the grave, the victim of a 
broken heart. 

“ It was on her that Moore, the distinguished 
Irish poet, composed the lines ‘ She is far from the 
land where her young hero sleeps.’ ”— Washington 
Irving in The Sketcli-hook. 

Page 3J^2. —The Sack or Baltimore. —“Balti¬ 
more is a small seaport in the barony of Carberry 
in South Munster. It grew up round a castle of 
O'Driscoll’s, and was after his ruin colonized by 
the English. On the 20th of June, 1631, the 
crews of two Algerine galleys landed in the dead 
of night, sacked the town, and bore off - into slavery 
all who were not too old, or too young, or too 
j fierce for their purpose. The pirates were steered 
up the intricate channel by one Hackett, a Dun- 
garvan fisherman, whom they had taken at sea for 
the purpose. Two years after he was convicted 
and executed for the crime. Baltimore never 
recovered from this. To the artist, the antiquary, 

J and the naturalist its neighborhood is most inter¬ 
esting.’’ (See The Ancient and Present State of 
the County and City of Cork, by Charles Smith, 
M. D., second edition, Dublin, 1771. Note by 
Thomas Osborne Davis.) 

Page 3 ^ 3 .— The Song of the Cornish Men.— 
“ The Trelawney referred to was Sir J. Trelawney, 
Bishop of Bristol, one of the seven Bishops who 
(in 1688) presented the petition to King James II. 
against their being required to read from their 
pulpits the second ‘ Declaration of Indulgence.’ 
The Bishops were brought to trial by the King 
and charged with publishing a libel, but were 
acquitted of the charge.”— Notes and Queries. 

Page 366. — Old Ironsides. —In the Boston Daily 
Advertiser of Sept. 14, 1830, appeared the follow¬ 
ing: 

“ Old Ironsides. —It has been affirmed upon good 
authority that the Secretary of the Navy has 
recommended to the Board of Navy Commis¬ 
sioners to dispose of the frigate Constitution. 
Since it has been understood that such a step was 
in- contemplation we have heard but one opinion 
expressed, and that in decided disapprobation of 
the measure. Such a national object of interest, 
so endeared to our national pride as Old Ironsides 
is, should never by any act of our government 
cease to belong to the Navy, so long as our coun¬ 
try is to be found upon the map of nations. In 
England it was lately determined by the Admiralty 
to cut the Victory, a one-hundred gun ship (which 
it will be recollected bore the flag of Lord Nelson 









A 1)1)1 7 'IONA I NO TES. 


8 1 1 


at the battle of Trafalgar), down to a seventy-four, ] 
but so loud were the lamentations of the people 
upon the proposed measure that the intention was 
abandoned. We confidently anticipate that the 
Secretary of the Navy will in like manner eonsult 
the general wish in regard to the Constitution, 
and either let her remain in ordinary or rebuild 
her for whatever the public service may require.” 

The poem was an impromptu outburst of feel- [ 
ing, and was published on the next day but one 
after reading the above paragraph. 

Page 410. —Bullfight of Uazfl. —“ Gazul is 
the name of one of the Moorish heroes who figure 
in the Histone dc Iks Guerras Civiles de Granada. 
The following ballad is one of the very many in I 
which the dexterity of the Moorish cavaliers in | 
the bull-tight is described. The reader will ob¬ 
serve that the shape, activity, and resolution of 
the unhappy animal destined to furnish the I 
amusement of the spectators are enlarged upon, 
just as the qualities of a modern race-horse ! 
might be among ourselves; nor is the bull with¬ 
out his name. The day of the Baptist is a fes- | 
tival among the Mussulmans as well as among 
Christians.”— Lockhart's Spanish Ballads. 

Page 412 . —The Mistletoe Bough. —“You 
must see Bramshill. It is like nothing hereabouts 
but reminds me of the grand Gothic castles in the 
North of England—Chillingham, Alnwick, etc. It 
was the residence of Prince Henry, James the 
First’s eldest son, and is worthy of his memory. 

It has a haunted-room, shut up and full of armour; 
a chest where they say a bride hid herself on her 
wedding-day, and the spring-lock closing, was 
lost and perished, and never found until years and 
years had passed (this story, by the way, is com¬ 
mon to old houses; it was told me of the great 
house at Malsanger); swarms with family pict¬ 
ures ; has a hall with the dais; much fine tapestry; 
and, in short, is wanting in no point of antique 
dignity.”— Letter to Miss Jeplison in L’Estrange’s 
Life of Mary Russell Milford. 

Page 422. — A Song of the North. —In May, 
1845, Sir John Franklin sailed from England 
with the Erebus and Terror, to discover a north¬ 
west passage through the Arctic seas. Not re¬ 
turning at the appointed time, several expedi¬ 
tions were sent out in search, among which was 
the celebrated Grinnell Expedition, commanded by 
the gallant Dr. Elisha Kent Kane of Philadel¬ 
phia, and Lady Franklin was especially indefatiga¬ 
ble in endeavoring to ascertain her husband’s fate, 
but without success until 1854, when Dr. Rae found 
some relics, and in 1859, when Captain McClin- 
tock discovered on the shore of King William’s 
Land, a record deposited in a cavern by the sur¬ 


vivors of Franklin’s crew. This document was 
dated April 25, 184S, and stated that Sir John 
died June II, 1847, that the Erebus and Terror 
were abandoned April 22, 1848, when the surviv¬ 
ors, 105 in number, were about to start for the 
Great Fish River. Many relics were also found 
ot this party, who probably perished soon after. 
It appears also that Sir John really did discover 
the long-sought-for northwest passage, but the 
knowledge of its whereabouts perished with him, 
and subsequent expeditions have never found it. 
As this poem was published years before the 
return of Captain McClintock’s expedition, its 
verisimilitude is certainly remarkable. 

Page 531 .— Alnwick Castle. —Alnwick Cas¬ 
tle is one of the finest buildings in England. 
It is built of freestone, in the Gothic style, and 
covers five acres of land. It was restored in 
1830 at a cost of $1,000,000. It belongs to the 
Duke of Northumberland, a descendant of the 
Percy’s, so famed in ancient ballads. One of the 
ancestors of the Percy family was an emperor at 
Constantinople, and the second Duke of the 
Smithson line was a major in the British army, 
and served gallantly in the New England and 
Long Island campaigns. Halleek wrote the poem 
in October, 1822, after visiting the ‘Home of the 
Percy’s high-born race.’ 

Page 536 .— Castell Gloom. —“ Castle Gloom, 
better known as Castle Campbell, was a residence 
of the noble family of Argyll, from the middle of 
the fifteenth till the middle of the seventeenth 
century, when it was burned by the Marquis of 
Montrose. The castle is situated on a promontory 
of the Ochil hills, near the village of Dollar, in 
Clackmannanshire, and has long been in the 
ruinous condition described in the song.”— Long¬ 
fellow’s Poems of Places. 

Page 600 .— Missionary Hymn. —“While Regi¬ 
nald Heber was rector of the Episcopal Church at 
Ilodnet, in Shropshire, he went to pay a visit to 
his father-in-law, Dr. Shipley, then Vicar of Wrex¬ 
ham, on the border of Wales. Heber was in his 
thirty-second year, and had come to Wrexham to 
deliver the first of a series of Sunday evening 
lectures in Dr. Shipley’s church. In the morning 
of that same day, Dr. Shipley was to deliver a 
discourse in behalf of the ‘Society for the Prop¬ 
agation of the Gospel in Foreign Parts.’ 

“On the afternoon before ‘ Whitsunday’ (1819), 
Heber and his father-in-law sat chatting with a 
few friends in Dr. Shipley’s parlor. Dr. Shipley, 
knowing his son-in-law’s happy gift in rapid com¬ 
position, said to him, ‘Write something for us to 
sing at the service to-morrow morning.’ Short 
notice that—for a man to achieve his immortality. 












\DD1TI0NAL NOTES. 


8-1‘J 


Heber retired to another part of the room, and in 
a little time had prepared three verses, of which 
the first one ran thus : 

From Greenland’s icy mountains, 

F rom India’s coral strand, 

Where Afric's sunny fountains 
Roll down their golden sand ; 

From many an ancient river, 

From many a palmy plain, 

They call us to deliver 
Their land from error’s chain.’ 

“ Heber read the three verses over, and only 
altered a single word. The seventh line of the 
second verse was 

“ 1 The savage in his blindness.’ 

“ The author erased that word, and substituted 
for it the better word heathen. ‘ There, there,’ 
coolly remarked Hr. Shipley,‘that will do very 
well.’ Heber was not satisfied, and said ‘No, 
no; the sense is not complete.’ In spite of his 
father-in-law's earnest protest, Heber withdrew 
for a few moments longer, and then coming back, 
read the following glorious bugle blast which 
rings like the reveille of the milennial morning : 

Waft, waft ye winds, the story, 

And you, ye waters, roll! 

Till like a sea of glory, 

It spreads from pole to pole! 

Till o’er our ransomed nature, 

The lamb for sinners slain, 

Redeemer, King, Creator, 

In bliss returns to reign.’ 

“‘What shall wc sing it to?’ inquired Dr. 
Shipley. Mr. Heber, who had a fine musical ear, 
suggested a popular air called ‘’Twas when the 
seas were roaring.’ The suggestion was adopted, 
and on the next morning the people of Wrexham 
church listened to the ‘ first rehearsal ’ of a lyric 
which has since been echoed by millions of voices 
around the globe. The air to which it was sung 
originally has given place, at least in our Ameri¬ 
can churches, to a sonorous and lofty tune com¬ 
posed by Dr. Lowell Mason. The air is worthy 
of the hymn, and both are perfect. No profane 
hymn-tinker ever dared to lay his bungling finger 
on a single syllable of those four stanzas which the 
Holy Spirit moved Reginald Heber to write. 
Little did the young rector of Ilodnet dream, as 
he listened to the lines sung that Sabbath morning, 


that he was catching the first strains of his own 
immortality. He ‘ builded better than he knew.’ 
He did more to waft the story of Calvary around 
the earth than if he had preached like Apollos, or 
had founded a board of missions. In the ‘ monthly 
concerts’ held in New England school-houses, in 
frontier cabins, on the decks of missionary ships 
bound to ‘Ceylon’s Isle,’ and in the vast assem¬ 
blies of the American Board, Heber’s trumpet- 
hymn has been sung with swelling voices and 
gushing tears. It is the marching music to which 
Christ’s hosts ‘keep step’ as they advance to the 
conquest of the globe. 

“ Heber lived but seven years after the composi¬ 
tion of his masterpiece. In June, 182.3, he de¬ 
parted for Calcutta as the missionary Bishop of 
India. For three years he toiled and travelled 
incessantly, and wherever he went his apostolic 
sweetness of character and benignity won even 
the‘heathen in their blindness.’ After a labor 
ious day’s work at Trichinopoly, he went to his 
bath to refresh his weary frame. He remained in 
the bath-room until his attendants became alarmed, 
and when they came in they found Reginald 
Heber asleep in Jesus. His gentle spirit had 
stolen away to join in the ‘song of Moses and of 
the Lamb.’ ”— Rev. Theodore L. Cuyler in N. 
Evangelist. 

Page 692 .— The Old and Younq Courtier.— 
“The whole of the sixteenth century was marked 
by important changes of every kind—political, 
religious, and social. The wars with France and 
the internal contests of the Roses were over, and 
the energy of the nation was directed to new 
objects. Trade and commerce were extended: 
fresh sources of wealth were developed; and new 
classes of society sprang up into importance, whose 
riches enabled them to outvie the old landed gen¬ 
try, but who had few of their hereditary tastes 
and habits. Hence the innovation of old cus¬ 
toms and the decay of ancient manners to which 
the gentry themselves were compelled to conform. 
This old song, which is printed in the Percy 
Reliques from an ancient block-letter copy in the 
Pepy’s Collection, is a lament over the changes 
which had taken place in the early part of the 
seventeenth century, as compared with the days 
of Queen Elizabeth.”— Knight's Half Hours with 
the Best Authors. 







INDEX OF FIRST LINES 


Page 

A Baby was sleeping . 33 

Abide with me! fast falls the eventide. 577 

Abou Ben Adhem (may his tribe increase!) .... 684 
Above the pines the moon was slowly drifting... 280 

A chieftain, to the Highlands bound. 383 

A cloud lay cradled near the setting sun.451 

Adieu, farewell earth’s bliss!...612 

Ae fond kiss and then we sever!. 154 

A fair little girl sat under a tree. 72 

Afar in the desert I love to ride. 494 

Again at Christmas did we weave. 719 

Again the Lord of Life and Light. 556 

A glass is good, and a lass is good. 764 

A good sword and a trusty hand. 343 

A good that never satisfies the mind. 676 

Ah, Chloris! could I now but sit. 189 

Ah! County Guy, the hour is nigh. 189 

Ah me! full sorely is my heart forlorn. 57 

Ah! my heart is weary waiting. 437 

Ah! then how sweetly closed those crowded 

days!. 53 

Ah! what a weary race my feet have run. 526 

Airy, fairy Lilian. 203 

Alexis, here she stay’d; among these pines .... 180 

A life on the ocean waves. 509 

A little pause in life while daylight lingers. 703 

Allcn-a-Dale has no fagot for burning. 186 

All hail the power of Jesus’ name. 556 

All in the Downs the fleet was moor’d. 119 

All in the merry month of May. 419 

All people that on earth do dwell. 621 

All praise to Thee, my God, this night. 575 

"All quiet along the Potomac,” they say. 349 

All thoughts, all passions, all delights. 100 

All ye woods, and trees, and bowers.433 

Aloft upon an old basaltic crag. 275 

Alone I walked the ocean strand. 678 

Although I enter not. 211 

A man there came, whence none could tell.685 

And are ye sure the news is true?. 10 

And hast thou sought thy heavenly home. 39 

And is this—Yarrow?—This the stream. 528 

And oh, to think the sun can shine. 276 

And thou art dead, as young and fair. 740 

And thou hast walked about (how strange a 

story!). 742 

"And wherefore do the poor complain?". 709 

And ye sail walk in silk attire. 147 

An old song made by an aged old pate. 692 

A poor wayfaring man of grief. 561 

Arethusa arose. 469 

Ariel to Miranda:—Take. 730 

Around the lovely valley rise. 443 

Art thou pale for weariness. 455 

Art thou poor, yet hast thou golden slumbers?.. 680 

Art thou weary, art thou languid?. 597 

As beautiful Kitty one morning was tripping. . . 213 
As, by some tyrant’s stern command .. 736 


Page 

As by the shore at break of day. 363 

As I gaed doun by yon house-en'. 416 

A simple child. 51 

As it fell upon a day. 484 

Ask me no more: the moon may draw the sea . . 192 

Ask me no more where Jove bestows. 192 

Ask me why I send you here. 214 

A slanting ray of evening light. 691 

As late the Trades’ Unions, by way of a show .. 769 

Asleep in Jesus! blessed sleep. 602 

A soldier of the Legion lay dying in Algiers. 83 

A song of a boat. 21 

As ships becalm’d at eve, that lay. 742 

As thro’ the land at eve we went. 39 

A street there is in Paris famous. 89 

As virtuous men pass mildly away. 661 

A sweet disorder in the dress. 738 

As when the weary traveller gains. 609 

As with gladness men of old. 621 

A thousand miles from land are we. 474 

At midnight in his guarded tent. 346 

At Paris, hard by the Maine barriers. 333 

At Paris it was, at the opera there. 180 

At setting day and rising morn. 195 

At the close of the day, when the hamlet is 

still.I. 668 

At the gate of old Granada, when all its bolts are 

barr’d. 375 

At the king's gate the subtle noon . .. 760 

Avenge, O Lord! thy slaughter’d saints, whose 

bones. 314 

Awake, AEolian lyre, awake. 726 

Awake, awake, my lyre!. 121 

Awake, my scul, and with the sun. 573 

Awake thee, my lady-love. 178 

A warrior hung his plumed helm. 694 

“Away! away!” cried the stout Sir John. 422 

Away, away o’er the feathery crest. 510 

Away! let naught to love displeasing. 7 

A weary weed, toss’d to and fro. 517 

A wee bird came to our ha’-door. 325 

A wet sheet and a flowing sea . 509 

Ay, Squire, said Stevens, they back him at evens. 397 

Ay, tear her tattered ensign down. 366 

Ay, this is freedom! these pure skies. 498 

Backward, turn backward, O Time, in your 

flight. 74 

Balow, my babe, lye stil and sleipe!. 32 

Bards of passion and of mirth .. 738 

Beat on, proud billows; Boreos blow. 243 

Beautiful Evelyn Hope is dead!. 196 

Because I oft in dark abstracted guise. 762 

Before I trust my fate to thee . 187 

Before Jehovah’s awful throne. 566 

Before the beginning of years. 742 

Behold. 635 

Behold the sun, that seem’d but now. 576 













































































































814 


INDEX OF FIRST LINES. 


Page 


Behold this ruin! 'Twas a skull. 662 

Be it ryght, or wrong, these men among. 112 

Believe me, if all those endearing young charms. 162 

Ben Battle was a soldier bold. 776 

Best and brightest, come away!. 503 

Better trust all and be deceived. 699 

Between the broad fields of wheat and corn ... 75 

Between the dark and the daylight. 45 

Beyond the smiling and the weeping. 615 

Bid me to live and I will live. 221 

Bird of the wilderness. 477 

Birds are singing round my window. 695 

Blame not my Lute! for he must sound. 190 

Blest as the immortal god is he. 192 

Blest be Thy love, dear Lord. 568 

Blossom of the almond trees. 466 

Blow, blow, thou winter wind. 447 

Blue gulf all around us. 650 

Bone and Skin, two Millers thin. 765 

Born in yon blaze of orient sky. 440 

Bound upon th’ accursfed tree. 555 

Break break, break. 88 

Brightest and best of the sons of the morning.. . 554 

Bright flower, whose home is everywhere. 463 

Bright shadows of true rest! some shoots of 

blisse. 580 

Brothers, the day declines. 572 

Brother, thou hast gone before us, and thy 

saintly soul is flown . 615 

Burly, dozing humble-bee!. 486 

Bury the Great Duke. 271 

Busk ye, busk ye, my bonny, bonny bride. 384 

Busy, curious, thirsty fly. 487 

But one short week ago the trees were bare .... 439 

By cool Siloam’s shady rill. £95 

By Logan’s streams that rin sae deep. 179 

By Nebo’s lonely mountain. 600 

By our camp-fires rose a murmur. 321 

By the moon we sport and play. 779 

By the rude bridge that arched the flood. 367 

Call for the robin redbreast and the wren. 658 

Calm me, my God, and keep me calm. 585 

Calm on the Spirit of thy God. 708 

Cam ye by Athol, lad wi’ the philabeg. 325 

Can I see another’s woe. 609 

Can I, who have for others oft complied. 228 

Captain, or colonel, or knight in arms. 314 

Care charmer Sleep, son of the sable Night .... 759 
Care-charming Sleep, thou easer of all woes. ... 762 

Carol, carol, Christians. 550 

Charm me asleep, and melt me so. 752 

Cheeks as soft as July peaches. 29 

Cherry-ripe, ripe, ripe, I cry. 214 

Child of the sun! pursue thy rapturous flight . . 486 

Children are what the mothers are. 36 

Children of the heavenly King. 594 

Christians, awake, salute the happy morn. 551 

Christ the Lord is risen to-day. 555 

Close his eyes, his work is done. 277 

Come, all yc jolly shepherds. 167 

Come away, come away. Death. 197 

“Come come,” said Tom’s father, “at your time 

of life. 778 

Come from my first, ay, come!. 265 

Come hither, Evan Cameron. 314 

Come, Holy Ghost, our souls inspire. 562 

Come, Holy Spirit, heavenly Dove. 562 


Page 


Come in the evening, or come in the morning. . . 158 

Come into the garden, Maud. 177 

Come listen to me, you gallants so free. 392 

Come live with me, and be my love. 140 

Come, oh come! in pious lays. 571 

Come, O thou Traveller unknown . 591 

Come, rest in this bosom, my own stricken deer 147 
Come, see the Dolphin’s anchor forged! ’tis at a 

white heat now. 507 

'■Come sleep, O sleep! the certain knot of peace . 756 

Come, stack arms, men; pile on the rails. 352 

Come, Thou Fount of every blessing. 605 

Come to me, dearest, I’m lonely without thee.. . 11 

Come ye lofty, come ye lowly. 550 

Come, ye sinners, poor and wretched. 569 

Come, ye thankful people, come. 578 

Comfort thee, O thou mourner, yet a while .... 274 
Comrades, leave me here a little, while as yet 'tis 

early mom. 149 

Condemn’d to hope’s delusive mine. 247 

Could ye come back to me, Douglas, Douglas. .. 17 

Crabbfed age and youth. 754 

Creator Spirit, by whose aid. 563 

Cromwell, our chief of men, who through a cloud 236 

Cupid and my Campaspe play’d. 99 

Cyriac, this three years day these eyes, tho' clear 236 

Daughter to that good earl, once President .. . 237 

Day, in melting purple dying. 170 

Day of vengeance, without morrow!. 631 

Day of wrath! O day of mourning!. 630 

Day-stars! that ope your eyes with morn to 

twinkle. 460 

Dazzled thus with height of place. 232 

Dead! One of them shot by the sea in the East.. 26 

Dear Chloe, while the busy crowd. 2 

Dear chorister, who from those shadows sends. . 482 

Dear is my little native vale. 502 

Dear my friend and fellow-student, I would lean 

my spirit o’er you. 104 

Deem not devoid of elegance the sage.747 

Deep in the wave is a coral grove. 518 

Deep on the convent-roof the snows. 566 

Despairing beside a clear stream. 194 

Descend, ye Nine! descend and sing... 725 

Diaphenia, like the daffodowndilly. 179 

Dies Irce, Dies Ilia!. 629 

Does the road wind up-hill all the way?. 598 

Dorinda’s sparkling wit and eyes. 127 

Downward sinks the setting sun. 718 

Down trickling, soft and slow. 467 

Do ye hear the children weeping, O my brothers 63 

Do you ask what the birds say? The sparrow, 

the dove. 479 

Drink to me only with thine eyes. 195 

Drop, drop, slow tears.. 564 

Duncan Gray cam here to woo. 144 


Earth has not anything to show more fair. 521 


Earth, with its dark and dreadful ills. 649 

E’en such is time; which takes on trust. 232 

Ere last year’s moon had left the sky. 29 

Ere sin could blight or sorrow fade. 70S 

Eternal Spirit of the chainless Mind!. 400 

Ethereal Minstrel! Pilgrim of the sky!. 477 

Ever let the Fancy roam... 504 

Every wedding, says the proverb. 183 


















































































































INDEX OF FIRST LINES. 


SI 5 


Page 


Faintly as tolls the evening chime. 733 

Fair Amoret is gone astray. 155 

Fair as the dawn of the fairest day. 520 

Fair Daffodils, we weep to see'. 462 

Fair pledges of a fruitful tree. 466 

Fair stood the wind for France. 299 

Fallen? How fallen? States and empires fall. ... 270 
False world, thou ly’st; thou canst not lend .... 674 

Fare thee well! and if for ever. 15 

Farewell! but whenever you welcome the hour . 85 

Farewell, life! my senses swim. 657 

Farewell, thou busy world, and may. 499 

Farewell to Lochaber, and farewell, my Jean ... 195 

Far from the world, O Lord, I flee. 602 

Far in a wild, unknown to public view. 686 

Father, I know that all my life. 587 

Father of all! in every age. 565 

Fear no more the heat o’ the sun. 657 

First time he kiss’d me, he but only kiss'd. 135 

Five years have passed; five summers with the 

length. 540 

Flee fro’ the pres, and duelle with sothfastnesse 718 

Flower of the waste! the heathfowl shuns. 456 

Flow gently, sweet Afton, among thy green 

braes. 533 

Fly hence, shadows, that do keep. 752 

Follow a shadow, it still flies you. 124 

Fool, stand back, the king is dying. 760 

For ever with the Lord!. 617 

For me the jasmine buds unfold.102 

For our martyred Charles I pawned my plate ... 311 

For physic and farces . 765 

Fountain of mercy! God of Love!. 583 

Friend after friend departs. 658 

From all that dwell below the skies. 572 

From beauteous Windsor’s high and storied 

halls. 522 

From gold to gray. 695 

From Greenland’s icy mountains. 600 

From harmony, from heavenly harmony. 724 

From out the grave of one whose budding years 738 

From Stirling Castle we had seen. 528 

Full fathom five thy father lies. 662 

From the desert I come to thee. 177 

Full knee-deep lies the winter snow. 447 

Full many a glorious morning have I seen.448 

Furl that Banner, for 'tis weary. 357 

Gamarra is a dainty steed. 492 

Gane were but the winter cauld. 658 

Gather ye rosebuds while ye may. 123 

Gay, guiltless pair. 452 

Genteel in personage. 210 

Gently, Lord, oh, gently lead us. 563 

Get up, get up, for shame! the blooming morn.. . 436 

Gin a body meet a body. 214 

Give me my scallop-shell of quiet.. 598 

Give place, ye lovers, here before. 154 

“Give us a song!” the soldiers cried. 216 

Glories, pleasures, pomps, delights, and ease .... 203 

Glorious things of thee are spoken. 618 

God bless the king!—I mean the Faith’s De¬ 
fender . 311 

God gives not kings the style of gods in vain .... 702 

God is love! His mercy brightens. 564 

God makes sech nights, all white an’ still....... 763 

God might have bade the earth bring forth. 464 

God moves in a mysterious way. 563 


Page 


God of our fathers, known of old. 720 

God prosper long our noble king . 300 

God rest ye, merry gentlemen. 553 

God rest you, merry gentlemen. 551 

I God save our gracious king!. 355 

Golden slumbers kiss your eyes. 82 

! Go, lovely rose!.’.. 185 

Good-bye, good-bye to Summer. 481 

Good-bye, proud world! Fm going home. 677 

Good-night to all the world! there’s none. 638 

I Good people all, of every sort. 771 

I Go patter to lubbers and swabs, do ye see. 512 

Go, soul, the body’s guest. 675 

Go to dark Gethsemane. 554 

Go where glory waits thee... 95 

Go, youth beloved, in distant glades. 94 

Graceful may seem the fairy form. 24 

Green be the turf above thee. 254 

Green little vaulter in the sunny grass. 486 

Grown to man’s stature! O my little child!. 44 

Guide me, O Thou great Jehovah!. 593 

Guvener B. is a sensible man. 778 

Hail, beauteous stranger of the grove!. 485 

Hail, old patrician trees, so great and good! . . . 438 

Hail, Thou once-despised Jesus. 558 

Hail to the Chief, who in triumph advances.... 364 

Hail to thee, blithe spirit. 478 

Hail to the Lord’s anointed. 557 

Half a league, half a league. 348 

Happy the man, whose wish and care. 753 

Hark! ah, the nightingale!. 476 

Hark—hark! the lark at heaven’s gate sings . . . 448 

Hark! how all the welkin rings!...552 

Hark, my soul! it is the Lord. 561 

Hark, the glad sound! the Saviour comes. 553 

I Has there any old fellow got mix’d with the 

boys?. 80 

Hast thou a charm to stay the morning-star ... 536 

Have you not heard the poets tell. 30 

Having this day my horse, my hand, my lance . 192 

Hear the sledges with the bells. 755 

Hear ye, ladies that despise. 169 

He first deceased; she for a little tried. 230 

He had played for his lordship’s levee. 44 

Heigh-ho! daisies and buttercups. 20 

He is gone on the mountain. 645 

Hence, all you vain delights. 676 

j Hence away, thou Siren; leave me . 153 

Hence, loathfed Melancholy. 731 

Hence vain deluding joys. 733 

Here, a sheer hulk, lies poor Tom Bowling. 659 

Here, passenger, beneath this shed. 228 

Here’s a health to ane I lo’e dear. 166 

Her eyes are homes of silent prayer. 719 

Her eyes the glow-worme lend thee. 127 

Her hair was tawny with gold, her eyes with 

purple were dark. 361 

Her suffering ended with the day. .. 645 

He sendeth sun, he sendeth shower. 564 

He that loves a rosy cheek. 180 

He that of such a height hath built his mind .... 232 

He who died at Azan sends. 701 

High in the breathless hall the minstrel sate .... 225 
His golden locks time hath to silver turned .... 749 

His steed was old, his armor worn. 406 

Holy Bible, book divine. 582 

i Holy, holy, holy, Lord God Almighty. 566 
























































































































810 


INDEX OF FIRST LINES. 


Page 


Home of the Percy’s high-born race . 531 

Home they brought her warrior dead. 56 

Ho, pretty page with the dimpled chin. 87 

‘ ‘Ho, sailor of the sea!. 67 

How are Thy servants blest, O Lord!. 578 

How blest has my time been, what joys have I 

known. 2 

How calmly sinks the parting sun! . 450 

How dear to this heart are the scenes of my 

childhood. 74 

‘ ‘How does the water”. 526 

How do I love thee? let me count the ways .. . 135 

How fresh, O Lord, how sweet and clean. 599 

How happy is he born and taught. 681 

Ho! why dost thou shiver and shake . 710 

How little recks it where men die . 700 

How many summers, love. 14 

How many times do I love thee, dear?. 102 

How many voices gaily sing. 695 

How much the heart may bear, and yet not 

break. 637 

How seldom, friend, a good great man inherits . . 682 

How sleep the Brave who sink to rest. 363 

How soft the pause's the notes melodious cease . 536 
How soon hath Time, the subtle thief of youth . 228 

How sweet I roamed from field to field. 122 

How sweet it were, if without feeble fright .... 741 

How sweet the Name of Jesus sounds. 561 

How sweet thy modest light to view. 456 

How vainly men themselves amaze. 501 

Hues of the rich unfolding morn . 573 

Hush, my dear! Lie still and slumber. 34 

I am a friar of orders gray. 780 

I am as I am, and so will I be. 191 

I am content, I do not care. 680 

I am dying, Egypt, dying. 290 

I am monarch of all I survey. 699 

I am old and blind. 237 

I am! yet what I am who cares, or knows? .... 638 

I arise from dreams of thee. 103 

I bring fresh showers for the thirsting flowers . . 453 

I cannot make him dead. 48 

I climb’d the dark brow of the mighty Hellvellyn 532 

I come from haunts of coot and hern . 469 

I do confess thou’rt smooth and fair. 148 

I do not ask, O Lord, that life may be. 558 

I dream’d that as I wander’d by the way. 500 

1 dug beneath the cypress shade. 126 

If all the world and love were young. 140 

If aught of oaten stop or pastoral song. 449 

If doughty deeds my lady please. 161 

If, dumb too long, the drooping Muse hath stay’d 244 

I feel a newer life in every gale. 441 

If I had thought thou couldst have died. 708 

If I leave all for thee, wilt thou exchange. 135 

I fill this cup to one made up. 282 

If love were what the rose is. 146 

If this fair rose offend thy sight . 214 

If thou must love me, let it be for naught. 134 

If thou shouldst ever come by choice or chance. . 408 

If thou wert by my side, my love. 9 

If thou wilt ease thine heart. 179 

If to be absent were to be. 125 

If women could be fair, and yet not fond. 190 

If you become a nun, dear. 171 

I give immortal praise. 506 

I hae naebody now, I hae nacbody now. 83 


Page 

I hae seen great anes, and sat in great ha’s. 1 

I have a son, a little son, a boy just five years old 50 
I have had playmates, I have had companions. . 77 

I have something sweet to tell you. 213 

I heard a thousand blended notes. 439 

I heard the voice of Jesus say. 620 

I held it truth, with him who sings. 719 

I here return, with many thanks. 534 

I in these flowery meads would be.. 471 

I know not that the men of old. 745 

I know that all beneath the moon decay. 215 

I lay in sorrow, deep distress’d . 707 

I lean’d out of window, I smelt the white clover 20 

I like a church, I like a cowl. 683 

I’ll love thee evermore. 213 

I look’d upon his brow; no sign. 293 

I love, and have some cause to love, the earth. . . 596 

I loved him not; and yet now he is gone. 141 

I loved thee long and dearly . 171 

I loved thee once; I'll love no more . ... . 141 

I love it, I love it; and who shall dare. 73 

I love thy kingdom. Lord. . 594 

I love to look on a scene like this. 77 

I made a posy, while the day ran by.754 

I met a traveller from an antique land. 661 

I mind me of a pleasant time. 93 

I mourn no more my vanished years.. 633 

I’m sitting alone by the fire ..207 

I’m sittin’ on the stile, Mary . . 86 

I’m wearin’ awa’, Jean. 656 


In a church which is furnish’d with mullion and 


gable. 

In all the land, range up, range down .. 

In Clementina’s artless mien. 

In eddying course when leaves began to fly ... . 

I never gave a lock of hair away... 

In form and feature, face and limb.. 

In Koln, a town of monks and bones. 

In May, when sea-winds pierced our solitudes . . 

In slumbers of midnight the sailor boy lay. 

In such a night, when every louder wind. 

In the down-hill of life, when I find I’m declining 

In the hour of my distress. 

In their ragged regimentals. 

In the merrie moneth of Maye. 

In the ranks of the Austrian you found him. 

In the silent midnight watches. 

In token that thou shalt not fear. 

I Into the Devil Tavern.. 

j In vain men tell us time can alter. 

In vain you tell your parting lover. 

In Xanadu did Kubla Khan. 

J In yonder grave a Druid lies. 

I once was a stranger to grace and to God. 

I played with you ’mid cowslips blowing. 

I prithee send me back my heart .. 

I remember, I remember. 

I said to Sorrow’s awful storm. 

I sat at Doris, the shepherd maiden ... 

I saw him last on this terrace proud. 

I saw him once before. 

I saw two clouds at morning. 

I saw where in the shroud did lurk. 

| I say to thee, do thou repeat. 

I sing the hymn of the conquered who fell in the 

battle of life. 

i Is it come? they said on the banks of the Nile... 
i I sleep and rest, my heart makes moan. 


775 
203 
214 
506 
134 

776 
771 
464 
510 
443 
694 
612 
330 
145 
364 
595 
583 
310 
739 
196 
765 
246 
569 
214 
171 

73 

685 

201 

341 

753 

220 

55 

682 

702 

746 

21 





















































































































INDEX OF FIRS? LINES. 


817 


Pack 


I sprang to the stirrup, and Joris, and he.374 

Is there for honest poverty. 762 

Is this a fast—to keep. 607 

It came upon the midnight clear. 562 

It flows through old hushed ./Egypt and its sands 535 

I think when 1 read that sweet story of old. 588 

It is a beauteous Evening, calm and free. 450 

It is a place where poets crown'd may feel the 

heart’s decaying. 248 

It is not beauty I demand. 139 

It is not growing like a tree. 698 

It is the miller’s daughter. 155 

It lies around us like a cloud. 663 

It little profits that an idle king. 289 

It's hame, and it’s hame, hame fain wad I be. .... 357 

It is a friar of orders gray. 117 

It was a summer evening. 697 

It was a time of sadness, and my heart. 610 

It was many and many a year ago. 143 

It was on the Western Frontier. 52 

It was the calm and silent night!. 549 

It was the schooner Hesperus. 514 

It was the time when lilies blow. 138 

I’ve a letter from thy sire.. 25 

I’ve heard them lilting at our ewe-milking. ... 307 

I’ve wander’d east, I’ve wander’d west. 118 

I’ve wander’d to the village, Tom, I've sat be¬ 
neath the tree. 78 

I wander’d by the brookside. 169 

I wander’d lonely as a Cloud. 461 

I was born as free as the silvery light. 694 

I was thy Neighbor once, thou rugged Pile!. 523 

I weep for Adonais—he is dead!. 254 

I weigh not fortune’s frown or smile. 680 

I will not let you say a woman’s part. 188 

I wish I were where Helen lies. 404 

I wish I were where Helen lies. 405 

I wonder if Brougham thinks as much as he talks 775 

I worship thee, sweet Will of God!. 586 

I would have gone; God bade me stay. 611 

I would not live alway—live alway below!. 613 

Jenny kiss’d me when we met. 186 

Jesu, lover of my soul. 560 

Jesu, my strength my hope,. 599 

Jesus! and shall it ever be!. 619 

Jesus, I my cross have taken. 559 

Jesus shall reign where’er the sun . 609 

John Anderson, my jo, John. 8 

John Brown of Ossawatomie spake on his dying 

day. 277 

John Gilpin was a citizen. 772 

Joy to the world! the Lord is come. 610 

Just as I am, without one plea. 588 

Just for a handful of silver he left us. 264 

Kathleen Mavourneen! the gray dawn is 

breaking..- ■ • 209 

Kentish Sir Byng stood for his king. 311 

Ken ye aught of brave Lochiel?. 324 

King Almanzor of Granada, he hath bid the 

trumpets sound. 410 

King Francis was a hearty king, and loved a 

royal sport. 413 


Lady Clara Vere de Vere 
Laid in my quiet bed . . . 
Lars Porsena of Clusium 


Page 


Late at e’en, drinking the wine. 383 

Lay a garland on my hearse.. 212 

Lead, kindly Light, amid th’ encircling gloom. . 589 

Lead us, Heavenly Father, lead us. 605 

Let me move slowly through the street. 667 

Let me not to the marriage of true minds.218 

Let Observation, with extensive view. 669 

Let us go, lassie, go. 502 

Life! I know not what thou art. 633 

Like as the culver, on the bared bough. 160 

Like as the damask rose you see . 646 

Like as the waves make toward the pebbled 

shore. 751 

Like the violet, which alone. 179 

Like to Diana in her summer weed. 102 

Like to the clear in highest sphere. 123 

Like to the failing of the star. 718 

Listen, my children, and you shall hear. 328 

Lithe and listen, gentlemen. 370 

Little drops of water. 059 

Little lamb, who made thee?. 452 

* ‘Live while you five!” the epicure would say. . 594 

Lochiel, Lochiel! beware of the day . 322 

Lo! He comes with clouds descending. 631 

Lo! here a little volume, but great book. 606 

Lone upon a mountain, the pine trees wailing 

round him. 172 

Lone did I toil, and knew no earthly rest. 589 

Look at me with thy large brown eyes. 30 

Look, how the flower which ling’ringly doth fade 754 

Look out, bright eyes, and bless the air!. 184 

Lord, dismiss us with thy blessing. 632 

Lord, it belongs not to my care. 586 

Lord Lovel he stood at his castle-gate. 198 

Lords, knights, and squires, the numerous band 47 

Lord, Thou hast given me a cell. 579 

Lord, with glowing heart I’d praise Thee. 568 

Loud is the Summer’s busy song. 441 

Love in her sunny eyes doth basking play. 142 

Love in my bosom, like a bee. 98 

Love is a sickness full of woes. 98 

Love is like a lamb, and love is like a lion. 184 

Love is a blossom where there blows. 98 

Lovely, lasting peace of mind!. 679 

Love not, love not! ye hapless sons of clay! .... 187 

Love me not for comely grace. 139 

Love still hath something of the sea. 99 

Love thy mother, little one!. 35 

Lo! where the rosy-bosom’d hours . 435 

“Lullaby, O, lullaby!”. 765 

Magnificent thy fate!. 350 

Maiden! with the meek brown eyes. 66 

Maid of Athens, ere we part. 145 

Maid of my love, sweet Genevieve. 155 

‘ ‘Make way for liberty!”—he cried. 298 

March, march, Ettrick and Teviotdale. 358 

Margarita first possess’d. 221 

Martial, the things that do attain . 636 

Mary! I want a lyre with other strings. 247 

Matron! the children of whose love. 702 

Maud Muller, on a summer’s d.*v. 167 

Maxwelton braes are bonnie. 199 

May! queen of blossoms . 436 

Men of England! who inherit . 356 

Merry Margaret.. 227 

Methinks it is good to be here. 653 

Methought I saw the grave where Laura lay .. . 737 


52 


























































































































818 


INDEX OF FIRST LINES. 


Page 


Midnight past! Not a sound of aught. 199 

’Mid pleasures and palaces though we may roam 1 

Mild offspring of a dark and sullen sire!. 461 

Milton! thou shouldst be living at this hour .... 242 

Mine be a cot beside the hill. 6 

Mine eyes have seen the glory of the coming of 

the Lord. 354 

Mortality, behold and fear. 522 

Mourn, hapless Caledonian, mourn. 326 

‘ ‘Move my arm-chair, faithful Pompey . 367 

Much have I tra veil’d in the realms of gold .... 737 

Music, when soft voices die. 185 

My beautiful! my beautiful! that standest 

meekly by. 496 

My country, 'tis of thee. 354 

My days among the dead are pass’d. 735 

My days pass pleasantly away. 749 

My dear and only love, I pray. 193 

My dear mistress has a heart. 156 

My earrings! my earrings! they’ve dropp’d into 

the well. 183 

My fairest child, I have no song to give you. 48 

My faith looks up to Thee. 558 

My God and Father, while I stray. 586 

My God, now I from sleep awake. 577 

My hair is grey, but not with years. 400 

My heart aches, and a drowsy numbness pains.. . 482 

My heart leaps up when I behold. 453 

My heart’s in the Highlands, my heart is not here 358 
My letters! all dead paper, . . . mute and 

white. 135 

My life is like the summer rose. 636 

My life, which was so straight and plain. 637 

My little love, do you remember. 85 

My lov’d, my honor'd, much-respected friend .. 3 

My love and I for kisses play’d. 156 

My love he built me a bonny bower. 419 

My lute, be as thou wert when thou didst grow. . 732 

My love is like a red, red rose. 157 

My minde to me a kingdom is. 735 

My mother bore me in the southern wild. 37 

My prime of youth is but a frost of cares. 718 

My sheep I neglected, 1 broke my sheep-hook .. 200 

My silks and fine array. 190 

My soul to-day. 519 

Mysteriou Night! when our first parent knew . . 450 

My time, O ye Muses, was happily spent. 173 

My true-love hath my heart, and I have his ... 127 

Nae shoon to hide her tiny taes. 41 

Naked on parent’s knees, a new-born child .... 50 

Nearer, my God, to Thee. 584 

Never any more. 211 

News of battle!—news of battle!. 303 

Nobles and heralds, by your leave. 243 

No longer mourn for me when I am dead. 219 

No stir in the air, no stir in the sea. 380 

Not a drum was heard, not a funeral note. 253 

Not as all other women are. 208 

Not, Celia, tha I juster am. 127 

Nothing but leaves; the Spirit grieves. 598 

Not marble, nor the gilded monuments. 750 

Not one kiss in life, but one kiss at life’s end. . . 142 

Not ours the vows of such as plight. 101 

Now gentle sleep hath closed up those eyes .... 156 
Now glory to the Lord of Hosts, from whom all 

glories are!. 308 

Now ponder well, you parents deare. 53 


Page 


Now poor Tom Duns-tan's cold. 760 

Now the bright morning star, day’s harbinger .. 435 
Now the third and fatal conflict for the Persian 

throne was done. 291 

O blithe new-comer! I have heard. 484 

O Captain! my Captain! our fearful trip is done 223 

O Castell Gloom! thy strength is gone. 536 

O Christmas, merry Christmas!. 555 

O day most calm, most bright!. 580 

O Death! thou tyrant fell and bloody!. 249 

O’er a low couch the setting sun . 641 

O’er moorlands and mountains, rude, barren and 

bare. 747 

O faint, delicious, spring-time violet !. 462 

O fair and stately maid, whose eyes .. 216 

Of all speculations the market holds forth. 776 

Of all the girls that are so smart. 120 

Of all the rides since the birth of time. 373 

Of all the thoughts of God that are. 642 

Of a’ the airts the wind can blaw. 126 

Of Leinster, famed for maidens fair. 197 

Of Nelson and the North. 340 

Oft has it been my lot to mark. 706 

Of this fair volume which we World do name . . . 470 

Oft I had heard of Lucy Gray.. 56 

Oft in the stilly night. 77 

O God! whose thunder shakes the sky. 585 

Oh! a dainty plant is the ivy green. 465 

O happy soul that lives on high. 595 

O happy Thames that didst my Stella bear! . . . 191 
Oh, breathe not his name! let it sleep in the 

shade. 253 

Oh, Brignall banks are wild and fair. 176 

Oh, England is a pleasant place for them that’s 

rich and high. 421 

Oh, ever skill’d to wear the form we love!. 683 

Oh for a closer walk with God . 584 

Oh, hadst thou never shared my fate. 9 

Oh happy day that fixed my choice.. 585 

Oh, happy is the man who hears. 595 

Oh, how kindly hast Thou led me. 590 

Oh, how much more doth beauty beauteous 

see. 751 

Oh! it is great for our country to die where the 

ranks are contending . 365 

Oh, it is hard to work for God. 592 

Oh, it is pleasant, with a heart at ease. 455 

Oh listen, listen, ladies gay! . 405 

* ‘Oh, Mary, go and call the cattle home. 419 

Oh, my love’s like the steadfast sun. 18 

“Oh! pilot, ’tis a fearful night . 607 

Oh saw ye bonnie Lesley. 145 

Oh, say, can you see by the dawn's early light . 353 

Oh, say what is that thing call’d Light .. 67 

Oh, sing unto my roundelay! . 147 

Oh! snatch’d away in beauty’s bloom. 741 

Oh, stay not thine hand when the winter’s wind 

rude. 697 

Oh, talk not to me of a name great in story . . . 157 

Oh that last day in Lucknow fort!. 347 

Oh that those Ups had language! Life has pass’d 15 

Oh, the gallant fisher’s life!. 472 

Oh! the pleasant days of old, which so often 

people praise!. 745 

Oh! the snow, the beautiful snow. 715 

Oh waly waly up the bank ... 103 

Oh, weel may the boatie row . 510 












































































































INDEX OF FIRST LINES. 


819 


Page 

Oh welcome, bat and owlet gray. 485 

Oh, what will a' the lads do. 161 

Oh wha will shoe my fair foot. 396 

Oh, wherefore come ye forth in triumph from the 

north. 312 

Oh, why left I my home?. 362 

Oh, why should the spirit of mortal be proud? .. . 647 

Oh yet w'e trust that somehow good. 719 

Oh, young Lochinvar is come out of the West ... 136 

O, if thou knew’st how 7 thyself dost harm. 162 

O Jesu, Thou art standing... 570 

Old girl that has borne me far and fast. 497 

Old Grimes is dead; that good old man. 768 

Old letters! wipe away the tear. 88 

Old wine to drink. 747 

O little town of Bethlehem. 574 

O Lord, another day is flown. 588 

O lovely Mary Donnelly, it’s you I love the best!. 142 

O may I join the choir invisible. 616 

O Mary, at thy window be!. 147 

O melancholy bird! a winter’s day. 476 

O mistress mine, where are you roaming?. 163 

O moon that shinest on this healthy wild. 455 

O mother dear, Jerusalem. 622 

O Mother Earth! upon thy lap. 263 

On a day, alack the day!. 141 

On a hill there grows a flower. 182 

On a lone barren isle, where the wild roaring 

billow. 252 

O Nanny, wilt thou go -with me. 161 

Once did she hold the gorgeous East in fee .... 347 

Once in the flight of ages past. . . 638 

Once this soft turf, this rivulet’s sands. 696 

Once upon a midnight dreary, while I pondered, 

weak and weary. 766 

One by one the sands are flowing. 703 

One more Unfortunate. 714 

One night came on a hurricane. 775 

One sweetly solemn thought. 607 

One word is too often profaned . 148 

O nightingale, that on yon bloomy spray. 482 

On Leven’s banks, while free to rove. 533 

On Linden, when the sun was low. 339 

On the crimson edge of the eve. 485 

On thy fair bosom, silver lake. 539 

On yonder hill a castle stands. 387 

O reader! hast thou ever stood to see. 467 

Orpheus with his lute made trees.'... 730 

O stream descending to the sea. 634 

O Thou, from whom all goodness flows. 604 

O Thou, the contrite sinner’s friend. 559 

O Time, who know’st a lenient hand to lay .... 706 

Our band is few, but true and tried. 330 

Our bugles sang truce, for the night-cloud had 

lower’d . 83 

Our flood’s queen, Thames, for ships and swans 

is crowned. 521 

Our God, our help in ages past. 610 

Our wean’s the most wonderfu’ wean e’er I 

saw. 42 

Out and n the river is winding. 757 

Out of the church she follow’d them.. 188 

Out of the clover and blue-eyed grass. 399 

Out upon it, I have loved. 142 

Over the mountains. 97 

Over the river they beckon to me. 649 

O wild West Wind, thou breath of autumn's 

being. 445 


Page 


O Word of God incarnate. 605 

O World! O Life! O Time!. 756 

Pack, clouds, away, and welcome, day. 215 

Passions are likened best to floods and streams. 182 

Peace in the clover-scented air. 365 

Pibroch of Donuil Dhu. 359 

Pilgrim, burdened with thy sin. 584 

Piped the blackbird on the beechwood spray ... 38 

Piping down the valleys wild. 68 

Pity the sorrows of a poor old man. 712 

Pleasant are Thy courts above. 620 

Poor lone Hannah. 512 

Poor Soul, the centre of my sinful earth. 751 

“Praise God from whom all blessings flow 7 ” .... 603 

Praise to God, immortal praise. 568 

Prayer is the soul’s sincere desire. 583 

Prithee tell me, Dimple-Chin. 163 


Qdeen and huntress, chaste and fair. 455 

Quhy dois zour brand sae drop wi’ bluid.382 

i Quivering fears, heart-tearing cares. 471 

j Restless forms of living light. 473 

| Ride on, ride on in majesty!. 554 

J Ring out, wild bells, to the wild sky. 720 

j Rise, my soul, and stretch thy -wings. 590 

| ‘ ‘Rise up, rise up, Xarifa! lay the golden cushion 

down. 209 

Rock of Ages, cleft for me. 560 

j Roses, their sharp spines being gone. 97 

j “Ruin seize thee, ruthless king!. 294 


Sad is our youth, for it is ever going. 634 

Saviour! like a shepherd lead us. 597 

Saviour, when in dust to Thee .. 559 

Saviour, who Thy flock art feeding. 560 

Saw ye my w 7 ee thing, saw ye my ain thing .... 164 

Say over again, and yet once over again. 134 

Scots, w 7 ha hae wi’ Wallace bled. 296 

Season of mists and mellow fruitfulness!. 444 

See, from this counterfeit of him. 223 

See the chariot at hand here of Love!. 160 

See the course throng’d with gazers, the sports 

are begun . 492 

See with what simplicity. 242 

Shall I compare thee to a summer’s day?. 220 

Shall I tell you whom I love. 123 

Shall I, wasting in despair. 169 

She dwelt among the untrodden ways . 49 

She is a winsome wee thing. 9 

She is far from the land where her young .hero 

sleeps. 274 


She is my only girl. 41 


She is not fair to outward view . 172 

Shepherds all, and maidens fair. 499 

She’s gane to dwall in heaven, my lassie. 218 

She stood breast-high amid the corn. 144 

She walks in beauty like the night. 739 

She was a phantom of delight. 10 

Should auld acquaintance be forgot. 81 

Shout the glad tidings, exulting sing. 553 

Sigh no more, ladies, sigh no more. 187 

Silence, in truth, wmuld speak my sorrow best. . . 230 

Silent nymph, with curious eye!. 524 

Since there’s no help, come, let us kiss and part 170 

Sing, I pray, a little song. 39 

Sing, sweet thrushes, forth and sing!. 473 

Slave of the dark and dirty mine!. 87 























































































































820 


INDEX OF FIRST LINES. 


Page 

Sleep, baby, sleep!. 32 

Sleep breathes at last from out thee. 36 

Sleep on, baby on the floor. 33 

Slowly England’s sun was setting o'er the hill¬ 
tops far away. 406 

So cruel prison how could betide, alas!. 224 

So fallen! so lost 1 the light withdrawn. 268 

Softly!. 658 

Softly now the light of day. 572 

Some murmur when their sky is clear. 678 

Sometimes a light surprises. 593 

Somewhat back from the village street. 76 

Souls of poets dead and gone. 522 

Sound fife, and cry the slogan.318 

Sound the loud timbrel o’er Egypt’s dark sea . . . 570 
■ Speak and tell us, our Ximena, looking north¬ 
ward, far away. 344 

Speak low r ! tread softly through these halls. 736 

Spring, the sweet spring, is the year’s pleasant 

king.;. 435 

Spring, with that nameless pathos in the air .... 440 

St. Agnes’ Eve—Ah, bitter chill it was!. 127 

Stand! the ground’s your own, my braves!. 328 

Star that bringest home the bee. 456 

Stay, lady, stay, for mercy’s sake. 46 

Stern Daughter of the Voice of God!.. 684 

Still sits the school-house by the road. 47 

Still thirteen years; ’tis autumn now. 217 

Still to be neat, still to be drest. 738 

Stop, mortal! Here thy brother lies,—. 698 

Such was old Chaucer; such the placid mien .... 227 

Sunset and evening star. 582 

Swans sing before they die—'twere no bad thing 768 

Sweet and low’, sweet and low. 31 

Sweet are the charms of her I love... 154 

Sweet are the thoughts that savor of content.... 680 

Sweet baby, sleep 1 what ails my dear?. 34 

Sw’eet, be not proud of those two eyes. 210 

Sweet bird! that sing’st away the early hours. . . 481 

Sweet day, so cool, so calm, so bright. 682 

Sw’eet Highland Girl, a very show’er. 65 

Sw’eet Innisfallen, fare thee well. 535 

Sweet is the rose, but grows upon a brere. 756 

Sweet is the scene when virtue dies. 638 

Sw’eetly breathing, vernal air. 440 

Sweet nurslings of the vernal skies. 457 

Sw’eet poet of the woods—a long adieu!. 484 

Sweet Saviour! bless us ere we go. 576 

Sw’eet Spring! thou turn'st with all thy goodly 

train. 433 

Swiftly w’alk over the western wave. 451 

Tasteful illumination of the night. 487 

Teach me, my God and King. 564 

Tears, idle tears, I know not w’hat they mean ... 85 

Tell me not in mournful numbers. 635 

Tell me not, sw’eete, I am unkinde. 124 

Tender-handed stroke a nettle. 708 

That day of wrath, that dreadful day. 630 

That the first Charles does here in triumph ride. 270 
That time of year thou may’st in me behold .... 219 

That way look, my Infant, lo!. 489 

That which her slender w’aist confined. 185 

The Assyrian came down like the wolf on the 

fold. 283 

The baby wept. 45 

The bonnie, bonnie bairn, who sits poking in the 
ftse. ... f .. 37 


10 

6 


Page 

The boy stood on the burning deck. 344 

The breaking waves dash’d high. 309 

The castle-clock had toll’d midnight. 313 

The church bells wereringing, thedevilsatsinging 582 

The conference-meeting through at last. 222 

The curfew tolls the knell of parting day ....... 650 

The day is done, and the darkness. 759 

The day is ended. Ere I sink to sleep. 613 

The dews of summer night did fall. 381 

The dew was falling fast, the stars began to 

blink. 491 

The doubt which we misdeem, fair love, is vain. 101 

The dule's i’ this bonnet o’ mine. 166 

The dusky night rides down the sky. 497 

Thee finds me in the garden, Hannah,—come in! 

’Tis kind of thee. 22 

“Thee, Mary, with this ring I wed”. 

The farmer sat in his easy-chair. 

The farmer’s wife sat at the door. 513 

The forward youth that would appear. 240 

The fountains mingle with the river. 97 

The fourteenth of July had come. 331 

The gallant youth who may have gain’d. 529 

The glories of our blood and state. 643 

The glow and the glory are plighted. 202 

The God of Abraham praise .. 603 

The harp that once through Tara's halls. 362 

The heath this night must be my bed. 186 

The hosts of Don Rodrigo were scatter’d in dis¬ 
may . 293 

The house is dark and dreary. 758 

The isles of Greece! the isles of Greece!. 360 

The Jester shook his hood and bells, and leap’d 

upon a chair. 780 

The king sits in Dunfermline town. 369 

The king with all his kingly train. 327 

The Knight had ridden down from Wensley 

Moor. 389 

The lady lay in her bed. 709 

The Lady Mary Villiers lies. 276 

The laird o’Cockpen he’s proud and he’s great . 764 

The lark now leaves his watery nest. 476 

The last and greatest herald of heaven’s King. . . 629 
The last gleam o’ sunset in ocean was sinkin’. ... 201 

The little gate was reached at last. 217 

The little toy dog is covered with dust. 72 

The Lord my pasture shall prepare. 581 

The lovely lass o’ Inverness. 699 

The melancholy days are come. 465 

The mellow year is hasting to its close. 468 

The merchant to secure his treasure. 142 

The midges dance aboon the burn. 449 

The mighty sun had just gone down. 269 

The mistletoe hung in the castle hall. 412 

The Moorish king rides up and down. 296 

The morning's cheery, my boys, arouse. 356 

The morning light is breaking. 581 

The Muse, disgusted at an age and clime.721 

The night has a thousand eyes. 146 

The night is come; like to the day. 576 

The night is dark, and the winter winds. 12 

The night was made for cooling shade. 519 

The old mayor climb’d the belfry-tower. 417 

The Ordeal’s fatal trumpet sounded. 145 

The pastor sits in his easy-chair. 92 

The pines were dark on Ramoth hill. 82 

The play is done, the curtain drops.. 693 

The poetry of earth is never dead!.486 



















































































































INDEX OF FIRST LINES. 


821 


Page 


The poplars are felled, farewell to the shade. 451 

The rain is o’er. How dense and bright. 439 

There be none of Beauty’s daughters. 157 

There be those who sow beside. 637 

There came to the beach a poor exile of Erin .... 359 

There is a fountain filled with blood. 620 

There is a garden in her face. 185 

Thrre is a green hill far away. 632 

There is a happy land. 619 

There is a land of pure delight. 619 

There is no flock, however watch’d and tended . . 666 
There is not in the wide world a valley so sweet. 535 

There’s a good time coming, boys. 748 

There’s a grim one-horse hearse in a jolly round 

trot . 717 

There’s a woman like a dewdrop, she’s so purer 

than the purest. 144 

There’s no dew left on the daisies and clover. . . 19 

There’s not a joy the world can give like that it 

takes away.' 676 

There was a may, and a weel-fared may.i. . 395 

There was a time when meadow, grove, and 

stream. 6M 

There were ninety and nine that safely lay. 601 

There were three maidens who loved a king. 156 

There were two sisters sat in a bour. 420 

The royal feast was done; the King. 613 

These, as they change, Almighty Father, these. 431 

The sea! the sea! the open sea. 507 

These to His memory—since he held them dear. 278 

The shades of night were falling fast. 758 

The shadows of the evening hours.. 572 

“The sky is clouded, the rocks are bare. 758 

The snow had begun in the gloaming. 446 

The soote season, that bud and bloom forth 

brings . 433 

The spacious firmament on high. 565 

The Spearmen heard the bugle sound. 394 

The splendor falls on castle-walls. 506 

The Spirit in our hearts. 593 

The stars above will make thee known. 227 

The stately Homes of England. 1 

The summer and autumn had been so wet. 411 

The summer sun is falling soft on Carberry's hun¬ 
dred isles. 342 

The Summer, the divinest Summer burns. 442 

The sun has gane down o’er the lofty Benlomond 163 

The sun is bright, the sky is clear. 413 

The sun is warm, the sky is clear. 262 

The sun rises bright in France. 358 

The sun shines bright in our old Kentucky home 24 

The tempest rages wild and high. 515 

The thirsty earth soaks up the rain. 455 

The thoughts are strange that crowd into ray 

brain. 538 

The tree of deepest root is found. 639 

The twentieth year is well-nigh past. 247 

The twilight hours, like birds, flew by. 515 

The wanton troopers, riding by. 505 

The warm sun is failing, the bleak wind is wailing 445 

The weary teacher sat alone. 91 

The weather-leech of the topsail shivers. 516 

The wife sat thoughtfully turning over. 12 

The wisest of the wise. 749 

The woosel-cock, so black of hue. 444 

The world is too much with us; late and soon . . . 452 

The world is very evil. 624 

The World’s a bubble, and the Life of Man. 633 


Page 


The wretch, condemn’d with life to part. 758 

They are all gone into the world of light .... 617 

They grew in beauty, side by side. 28 

‘ ‘They made her a grave too cold and damp .... 416 
They that have power to hurt, and will do none 752 

This figure, that thou here seest put. 232 

This is the Arsenal. From floor to ceiling. 539 

This is the month, and this the happy morn. 543 

This is the ship of pearl, which, poets feign . .... 474 

This morning, timely rapt with holy fire. 235 

This night is my departing night. 676 

This only grant me, that my means may lie .... 235 
Thou art gone to the grave; but we will not de¬ 
plore thee. 614 

Thou art, O God! the life and light. 571 

Thou blossom, bright with autumn dew. 464 

Thou hast sworn by thy God, my Jeanie. 157 

Thou lingering star, with lessening ray. 137 

Thou little bird, thou dweller by the sea. 475 

Thou still unravish’d bride of quietness. 744 

Three fishers went sailing away to the west. 513 

Three poets, in three distant ages born. 242 

Threescore o’ nobles rade up the king’s ha’. 408 

Three years she grew in sun and shower. 49 

Thrice, at the huts of Fontenoy, the English 

column fail’d. 320 

Thy braes were bonny, Yarrow stream. 386 

Thy cheek is o’the rose’s hue. 203 

Thy voice is heard thro’rolling drums. 741 

Thy way, not mine, O Lord. 608 

Tiger! tiger! burning bright. 498 

Timely blossom, infant fair. 35 

Time wasteth years, and months, and hours .... 172 

Tired with all these, for restful death I cry. 219 

’Tis gone, that bright and orbed blaze. 574 

’Tis midnight’s holy hour, and silence now. 95 

’Tis morn:—the sea-breeze seems to bring. 14 

’Tis sweet to hear the merry lark. 476 

’Tis the last rose of Summer. 465 

’Tis time this heart should be unmoved. 88 

’Tis twenty years, and something more. 79 

To battle! to battle!. 297 

To bear the burden of an Empire’s care. 281 

To bear, to nurse, to rear. 21 

To draw no envy (Shakespeare) on thy name . . . 230 

To fair Fidele’s grassy tomb. 657 

To him who in the love of Nature holds. 644 

To live in hell, and heaven to behold. 212 

To me, fair friend, you never can be old. 750 

Too late, alas! I must confess. 126 

To live the sorrow down, and try to be.i . 686 

To one who has been long in city pent. 503 

To praise thy life, or waile thy worthie death.... 229 

To sigh, yet feel no pain. 182 

To the belfry, one by one, went the ringers from 

the sun. 423 

To the lords of convention ’twas Claverhouse who 

spoke. 317 

To these, whom death again did wed. 655 

To the sound of timbrels sweet. 220 

To Thy temple I repair. 581 

Touch us gently, Time!. 749 

To wake the soul by tender strokes of art. 244 

Tread softly,—bow the head. 716 

Treason doth never prosper; what's the reason?. 759 

Triumphal arch that fill’d the sky. 453 

Trust not, sweet soul, those curled waves of gold 739 
’ 'Turn, gentle hermit of the dale”. 159 




















































































































822 


1NDEX OF FIRST LINES. 


Page 

Turn I my looks unto the skies.. 156 

Turn with me from the city’s clamorous street . . 584 

’Tvras at the royal feast for Persia won. 722 

'Twas at the silent solemn hour. 175 

'Twas Commencement eve, and the ball-room 

belle. 90 

’Twas in heaven pronounced, and muttered in 

hell.... 778 

'Twas in the prime of summer-time. 377 

'Twas morn—but not the ray which falls the 

summer boughs among. 265 

'Twas on a holy Thursday, their innocent faces 

clean. 43 

’Twas on a Monday morning. 324 

’Twas the night before Christmas, when all 

through the house. 67 

’Twas when the seas were roaring. 125 

Twelve years ago I made a mock. 79 

“Two hands upon the breast. 640 

Two worlds hast thou to dwell in, Sweet.457 

Tying her bonnet under her chin. 217 

Under a spreading chestnut-tree. 739 

Underneath this sable hearse. 235 

Under the greenwood tree. 466 

Up from the meadows rich with corn. 350 

Up from the south, at break of day. 351 

Upon the white sea sand. 700 

Up! quit thy bower; late wears the hour. 503 

Up to the hills I lift mine eyes. 603 

Up with me! up with me into the clouds!. 477 

Versailles!—U p the chestnut alley. 326 

Verse, a breeze ’mid blossoms straying. 94 

Victorious men of earth, no more. 643 

Vital spark of heavenly flame. 616 

Wanton droll, whose harmless play. 488 

Was it the chime of a tiny bell. 648 

Watchman, tell us of the night. 543 

’Way down upon de Swannee Ribber. 18 

We are all here. 17 

We are born; we laugh we weep. 635 

We are the sweet flowers. 458 

We are two travellers, Roger and I. 712 

We count the broken lyres that rest. 646 

Wee, modest, crimson-tipped flower. 463 

Weep no more, nor sigh, nor groan. 759 

Weep with me, all you that read. 234 

Wee, sleekit, cow’rin’, tim’rous beastie. 487 

Wee Willie Winkie rins through the town. 41 

Welcome, welcome, do I sing. 125 

Were I as base as is the lowly plain. 99 

Werther had a love for Charlotte. 775 

We watch 'cf her breathing through the night.... 645 

We were crowded in the cabin. 38 

We were not many—we who stood. 347 

We wreathed about our darling’s head. 49 

What ails this heart o’ mine?. 199 

What an image of peace and rest ..,. 540 

What are these in bright array. 618 

What beck’ning ghost, along the moonlight shade C55 

What bird so sings, yet so does wail?. 484 

What constitutes a state?. 363 

What did’st thou in thy treasure-caves and cells 517 

What I shall leave thee, none can tell. 235 

What is the existence of man’s life. 698 j 

What is the meaning of the song .. 146 


Page 


What need my Shakespeare for his honor'd bones 232 

What shall I do with all the days and hours. 101 

What’s hallowed ground? Has earth a clod.... 653 

What’s this dull town to me?. 102 

What was he doing, the great god Pan. 721 

What was’t awakened first the untried ear. 740 

When age hath made me what I am not now. ... 753 
When a’ ither bairnies are hushed to their hame 46 

When all is done and said .... 678 

When all Thy mercies, O my God. 567 

When as in faire Jerusalem. 376 

When Britain first, at Heaven’s command. 355 

Whence comes my love? O, heart, disclose .... 124 

When chapman billies leave the street. 769 

When coldness wraps this suffering clay. 645 

When first I saw sweet Peggy. 165 

When Freedom from her mountain-height.353 

When gathering clouds around I view. 589 

When God at first made Man. 682 

When hope lies dead within the heart. 705 

When I am dead, no pageant train. 292 

When icicles hang by the wall. 647 

When I consider how my light is spent. 236 

When I do count the clock that tells the time ... 750 
When in disgrace with fortune and men's eyes . . 219 

When in the chronicle of wasted time. 220 

When Israel, of the Lord beloved. 570 

When I survey the wondrous cross. 567 

When I upon the bosom lean. 7 

When I was dead, my spirit turn’d. 663 

When Lesbia first I saw, so heavenly fair. 155 

When lovely woman stoops to folly. 707 

When Love, with unconfined wings. 124 

When maidens such as Hester die. 280 

When marshall’d on the nightly plain. 597 

When May is in his prime, and youthful Spring. 436 

When midnight o’er the moonless skies. 94 

When music, heavenly maid, was young. 728 

When o’er the mountain steeps. 442 

When on my day of life the night is falling. 618 

When on my ear your Joss was knell’d. 658 

When our heads are bow'd with woe. 602 

When she comes home again: a thousand ways. 28 

When silent time wi' lightly foot. 93 

When stars are in the quiet skies. 218 

When that the fields put on their gay attire. 481 

When the British warrior queen. 367 

When the fields were white with harvest, and the 

laborers were few. 704 

When the hounds of spring are on winter’s traces 434 

When the hours of day are number'd. 757 

When the lessons and tasks are all ended. 62 

When the midnight hour is come. 269 

When the sheep are in the fauld, when the kye's 

come hame. 137 

When through the torn sail the wild tempest is 

streaming. 579 

When to the sessions of sweet silent thought .... 751 

When troubled in spirit, when weary of life. 493 

When we for age could neither read nor write ... 718 

When we two parted. 86 

When winter’s cold tempests and snows are no 

more . 479 

Where are the swallows fled?. 704 

Where are you going, my pretty maid?... 776 

Where did you come from, baby dear?. 31 

Where dost thou careless lie.,. 227 

Where is the grave of Sir Arthur O'Kellyn?. 646 




















































































































INDEX OF FIRST LINES. 


S2S 


Pace 


Where lies the land to which the ship would 

E° ? . 520 

Where shall the lover rest. 176 

W T here the remote Bermudas ride. 521 

Wherever I wander, up and about. 7 

Where, where will be the birds that sing. 700 

Whether on Ida’s shady brow... 752 

* ‘ Which shall it be ? W hich shall it be ?'”. 45 

While shepherds watched their flock by night. . 549 

Whilst in this cold and blustering clime. 471 

Whilst Thee I seek, protecting Power. 592 

Whither, ’midst falling dew. 475 

Whoe ’er she be. 121 

Who finds a woman good and wise. 24 

‘ ‘Who is it knocks this stormy night?.659 

Who is Sylvia? what is she. 21G 

Who is there now knows aught of his story. 282 

Why all this toil for triumphs of an hour?. CG2 

Why, Damon, with the forward day. 057 

Why do ye weep, sweet babes? Can tears. 401 

Why has not man a collar and a log? . 779 

‘ ‘Why sit’st thou by that ruined hall. 717 

Why so pale and wan, fond lover?. 104 

‘ ‘Why weep ye by the tide, ladie?. 134 

Wild rose of Alloway! my thanks. 251 

‘‘Will you walk into my parlor?” said the Spider 

to the Fly. 707 

Wilt thou forgive that sin where I began. 621 

Winged mimic of the woods! thou motley fool!. 479 

With a glancing eye and curving mane. 497 

With broken heart and contrite sigh. 582 

With deep affection. 534 

With fingers weary and worn. 711 

With how sad steps, O Moon, thou climb'st the 

skies!. 118 

Within a thick and spreading hawthorn bush . . . 480 


Note. —There are 920 pages in this 
pages of Contents and Indexes folioed with 


Page 


M ithin his sober realm of leafless trees. 600 

With little here to do or see. 462 

With one consent let all the earth. 565 

With silent awe I hail the sacred morn. 448 

Woodman, spare that tree!. 75 

Would ye be taught, ye feathered throng. 281 

Word was brought to the Danish king. 422 

Worship, honor, glory, blessing. 021 

Wouldst thou heare what man can say. 235 

Ye banks, and braes, and streams around. 120 

Ye banks and braes o’ bonnie Doon. 170 

Ye clouds! that far above me float and pause. . . 332 

Ye distant spires, ye antio.ue towers. 522 

Ye gentlemen of England. 507 

Ye golden lamps of heaven, farewell. 608 

Ye little birds, that sit and sing. 162 

Ye loyal Macdonalds, awaken! awaken!. 343 

Ye mariners of England. 356 

Ye nymphs of Solyma! begin the song. 547 

Ye say they all have passed away. 538 

Ye shepherds so cheerful and gay. 205 

* ‘Yes,” I answered you last night. 138 

Yet once more, O ye laurels, and once more. 237 

You bells in the steeple, ring, ring out your 

changes. . ..'. 19 

You know we French storm’d Ratisbon. 340 

You lay a wreath on murder’d Lincoln’s bier. . . . 278 

You may give over plough, boys. 040 

You meaner beauties of the night —. 185 

You must wake and call me early, call me early, 

mother dear. 69 

Young Ben he was a nice young man. 777 

Young Rory O’More courted Kathleen bawn ... 165 
You saucy south wind, setting all the budded 

beach boughs swinging . 442 


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